#writing this out made me realise I probably kin him a little too much

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

Writing Mordred is slowly making me realise I don’t actually hate him.

The more I think about it, the more I realise he’s just a traumatised child who felt trapped and ran out of options when every single person in his life who was supposed to help him failed in some way or others. Most in more than one way if we’re being honest.

The kid literally had no one to turn to when the girl he loved died and was openly hated by the guy he’s thought of as a god since he was a child.

Like let that sink in.

Merlin openly wished him dead, and Mordred literally worshipped the ground he walked on.

(I’m usually a Merlin apologist but bloody hell he fucked up at every opportunity when it came to Mordred)

Morgana was the exact opposite of his morals but wanted magic free, (at the cost of non magic users lives which is also problematic, but that’s a different conversation) so he didn’t stick around with her, but when Camelot no longer felt safe for him, he ran.

Which is definitely a trauma response considering how he grew up with the Druids and then whatever the fuck happened after he left them.

Arthur was the only person who was continuously good for him, saving him as a child and later becoming a brother/father figure, but then he killed Kara and Mordred had to watch another magic user be killed by Camelot except this time it was someone he truly believed was good. He didn’t see her attacking Arthur like she did, just that the king of Camelot was killing another magic user which was bound to bring up trauma that he hasn’t felt safe enough to unpack and heal from.

I have a lot more to say on this, but I’ve got to leave for work in a few minutes so I’ll come back and scream about it another time

Fucking Mordred though, poor kid. He really went through it.

[archived-kin]

grooming lucifer's wings (a piece that contains remarkably little actual wing-grooming)

note from kin: inspired by an ask someone sent me AGES ago that i can’t find because tumblr’s search feature is not good at all might do more of the boys in future, this was pretty fun to write… anyway, everyone come get your dose of soft lucifer here!

i keep trying to make the reader character more ‘blank’ so that y’all can properly project yourselves onto them, but it never works… so in this one you’re a silly goofball who is so very full of bad jokes and and also full of love for your demon bf

fandom: obey me!

character(s): gn!reader, lucifer

pairing(s): lucifer/reader

warning(s): nope!! though my interpretation of lucifer will probably seem ooc to some of you

genre: fluff

you know how most types of bird will have a moulting season, where their feathers all fall out and then regrow?? yeah lucifer gets that with his demon-form wings

it happens roughly every decade or so, give or take a few years

and lucifer HATES it

for one thing, because his flight feathers are either gone or still new and too small, he can’t fly in demon form like usual

it’s not like he flies that often anyway, but it just feels bad to know that he doesn’t have that option

and the pin feathers are also indescribably annoying - his wings are constantly prickling and itching, and they keep stinging if they brush up against something too hard

it’s not like being in regular form helps - he feels the prickling/pain under his skin instead, which is even more agonising than just feeling it in his wings

basically when lucifer’s wings are moulting he just wants to lock himself in his room and just lie there in demon form until it’s over

but since the entire moult lasts for roughly three weeks, he can’t do that if he wants to keep on top of his work

everyone else can generally tell when it’s moulting season because lucifer gets about 10000000x more irritable

you don’t realise though because he’s been avoiding you like the plague :((

but it turns out it was just because he doesn’t want to be mean to you! :D

it literally feels feels like someone’s constantly stabbing drawing pins into his back, so it’s hard NOT to get bitchy during moulting season - which is why he’s choosing to avoid you rather than accidentally hurt your feelings

except avoiding you also hurts your feelings, which he forgot to account for when he made that decision (lucifer you absolute goddamn buffoon)

in the end, the other brothers stage an intervention for their eldest brother, during which satan nearly hits him with a shoe and belphie calls him an idiot at least twenty times

lucifer’s inclined to punish them all for the impertinence, but he also realises that they kinda have a point

(and also it’s touching to him that his little brothers care about you so much, to the point where they’ll ALL actively start telling him off for hurting your feelings)

anyway, his moult is already coming to an end around this time! most of the pin feathers are gone, and the new feathers are still a little tender, but at least the constantly-being-stabbed feeling is mostly gone

so, he thinks to himself, he’ll make sure he gets a good night’s sleep and arrange a nice date to make everything up to you tomorrow

except it’s that very evening that you decide to burst into his room and start pummelling the stuffing out of his arm

he figures out by piecing together your broken speech that you’ve been given the low-down on the whole situation by his brothers, and that you’re REALLY mad at him for not just telling you that he wasn’t feeling well

and you’re ESPECIALLY mad that he instead chose to silently stew in his own misery like a frog in a boiling pot, because doesn’t he KNOW that you’d rather DIE than let him just be in pain indefinitely like this

the dramatics are unnecessary but lucifer literally loves it so much because it reminds him how much you love him and it makes his ego swell like 10000x, because to him there is no greater honour in the world than your love

anyway, once you’ve calmed down, your attitude does a complete 360

you hop onto his bed, give your lap a crisp slap, and order him to lie down in it immediately

you are very lucky that he loves you so much, because if anyone else tried this they’d be ground to dust in seconds

as it stands, all lucifer does is put up an extremely weak little fight (i.e. scoffs and gives that trademark ‘seriously?’ look) before immediately doing as you say

literally three-quarters of the tension leaves his body as soon as he does and oh wow why didn’t he do this sooner

he’s in such a state of relief that he doesn’t even think twice about complying when you tell him to switch to demon form for you

and, after all the tension of moulting season, loosening up and going demon form for a bit sounds like a really good idea actually

so he does!

he’s just starting to wonder exactly why you wanted him in demon form when he feels you start running your fingers gently through his feathers

you know that noise that cartoon characters make when they get blown/yanked up into the air really quick?? that’s the sound that plays in lucifer’s mind

no WONDER practically every animal with fur or feathers likes being pet in one way or another. it feels so good

you’re working your way through the rows and rows of somewhat crooked new feathers, veeery gently teasing them into neat lines, and then smoothing them over with your palm

it’s slow and methodical, like you’re working to some sort of beat, and

like at one point you make some stupid joke along the lines of ‘guess those pin feathers were really NEEDLING you haha’

honestly lucifer wants to be mad, but he can’t bring himself to be

tbh he can never get mad at any of your bad jokes, because they were part of the reason he ended up falling for you in the first place

this was basically how it went back before in the earlier days of you two knowing each other:

you: “hey lucifer, do your socks have holes in them?”

lucifer’s brain: okay look, we know that the human has a VERY nice face, but we have standards, and our standards are high, ESPECIALLY for personality, so do NOT fuck this up and do NOT start falling in love with the human

lucifer, out loud: “no they do not, why would—”

you: “then how’d you get your feet in them?! hahahahahahahahaha—”

lucifer’s brain: shit. they’re meeting all our standards. i think we’re in love with the human now.

based on the impression he gives most people, one would think that lucifer thinks you’re an idiot and doesn’t like you

but not so! what lucifer actually thinks is “my partner is an idiot and i like them SO MUCH”

basically your laugh makes his heart do somersaults, and whenever you lose it at one of your own jokes it makes him want to smile so wide his face starts aching

anyway back to the wing-grooming!

grjklhrjkhrlKJHKJSHFK DO YOU HAVE MAGIC IN YOUR HANDS???

AND YOUR VOICE APPARENTLY because lucifer can hear you cooing ‘ooooo what pretty wings’ under your breath, and it’s making his own breathing do funny things

you call him a gorgeous boy multiple times and he doesn’t even feel talked-down to, like he’d have assumed he would if ever addressed like that - he just basks in the compliment like ‘🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 you’re a gorgeous human tooooo’

obviously he doesn’t say that, nor does he really let it show on his face, but deep down in his soul he’s practically yelling it

you should really cherish this moment, because even if lucifer’s softer than pure cotton for you, it’s rare for him to be practically snuggling into your lap like this

there’s a combination of factors here:

1. he hasn’t had much contact with you since moulting season began, so he’s making up for lost time

2. doing all that work while simultaneously being in constant pain is EXHAUSTING and this is a great chance to wind down

and 3. man do your hands feel good

he straight up just falls asleep there in your lap after a while

some time later, he wakes up at a tiny hour of the morning, with you having fallen asleep sitting up

his wings are positively sparkling, you’ve done an absolutely fabulous job of neatening and smoothing out the new plumage

but now luci feels kind of bad because you look kind of exhausted

so he carefully eases himself out of your lap and climbs into bed properly, rearranging everything so that you’re nice and snug in his arms, with his wings wrapped around you like an extra protective layer of blankets

and now he kind of wants to cry because wow this cosiness just hits different. sleeping in your lap was great, but this is even GREATER. maybe he needs to sleep with you in demon form more often???

oh shit his horns make it pretty hard to put his head on the pillow comfortably, never mind

though, if you really like sleeping wrapped up in his wings like this, he’d be totally willing to put up with the pillow discomfort

it’s not awful, anyway - absolutely nothing compared to the everything about moulting season, actually

so lucifer drifts back off to sleep soon enough, fully aware of the fact that he doesn’t have his alarm set and that he’ll probably oversleep tomorrow, but also fully aware of the fact that he doesn’t care

sweet dreams you two <3

[zosonils]

what are some random papyrus headcanons you currently have?

ooughwhhghgh anon you know the EXACT way to my heart. got a map to it and everything. a real good and fancy map. the ones with sea monsters in the corners

autistic adhd papyrus real

he tends to think of anything he doesn’t understand [and even some things he does!] in terms of puzzles, since they’re a lifelong special interest and they help him contextualise things! for instance if he’s navigating someplace he’s never been before it’s easier for him to visualise things as an incomplete map that he has to find the pieces [landmarks] of than it is to just wander until he finds his way or go up to someone and ask for directions [talking to people he doesn’t know very well is also a puzzle and he has more trouble solving that one because sometimes the clues lie to you]. this approach to things makes him astoundingly good at working through things logically, although between the difficulties applying this sort of thinking to unpredictable social situations and his occasional penchant for insane troll logic he doesn’t have a 100% success rate

in addition to this he’s a really visual thinker and can understand almost anything really quickly if he has a way to visualise it, whether it’s explicitly given to him or he thinks of one himself and suddenly goes OH I GET IT NOW. anything that doesn’t come with a coherent visual metaphor is borderline impossible for him to grasp, though. dude needs his diagrams

he likes playing video games, at least when he isn’t hyperfocused on his duties as a royal guard in training, and he tends to get an insane amount of mileage out of them because once he beats whatever objective the game explicitly gives him he’ll start making up his own self-imposed challenges or ‘puzzles’ instead. like if you gave him tetris he’d be super into the standard a-type and b-type modes, but once he gets tired of those he’ll start doing stuff like trying to play in time with the music, or without rotating any pieces, or painstakingly arranging incomplete lines so that the empty spaces form some kind of intricate pattern

gloves and especially scarves are a comfort accessory for him! even before/after the battle body is a thing and he’s wearing different clothes from one day to another pretty much every outfit he wears includes those accessories. if it’s too hot for a huge warm tightly-wrapped scarf he just grits his teeth and wears it anyway

the reason pap hates grease so much is that it sets off literally every single sensory issue he has. it sticks to you when you touch it just a little, it feels just as gross through your gloves, it’s hard to wash off, it stains your favourite scarf so you have to put it through the washing machine twice to make absolutely sure it doesn’t smell weird later and stress you out again, it has a gross taste that stays in your mouth for ages, it’s just the worst! how his brother stomachs the stuff he’ll never know [and it’s not because he doesn’t have a stomach, that doesn’t mean he can’t have standards either]

papyrus knows that sans suffers from depression, and he understands what that actually means as opposed to just having a surface-level grasp on ‘sans isn’t happy as often as he should be’. the issue isn’t that he doesn’t understand or desperately want to help, he does, but the sheer magnitude of sans’ issues is just substantially more than papyrus has any frame of reference for. the best he knows how to do is to be as blisteringly positive as possible in hopes that some of it will rub off on sans, while also refusing to enable any of the lazy or blatantly self-destructive habits sans has that papyrus can tell aren’t making him feel any better. short motherfucker needs a trained therapist and/or antidepressants more than anything but papyrus is doing everything he can, and while papyrus being papyrus is already enough to keep sans going he’s helping as much as he does specifically because of the deliberate effort he makes to beat sans’ depression over the head with a bone until it runs off hissing

wow that one got long lmao sorry i just really hate when people portray papyrus as completely oblivious to sans’ problems when he’s pretty strongly hinted to understand them to at least some degree and 1. it literally makes for such a better story on both the heartwarming and crushingly tragic ends of the spectrum if pap knows and is doing his best to help 2. even if it didn’t people are still deliberately ignoring huge chunks of papyrus’ characterisation in favour of portraying him as the smol little innocent cinnamon roll uwu bean who doesn’t understand anything and y’all have got to realise the implications of forcing this personality on the most heavily autistic coded character in the game :|

on a more lighthearted note, papyrus can reluctantly but wholeheartedly appreciate a good pun or cleverly-planned prank, he just knows that sans likes getting a rise out of people with them and goes with his instinct to groan over his instinct to laugh because it makes sans happy. sans is completely aware that papyrus is doing this, so there’s an unspoken self-aware undertone to their whole routine lmao

whenever papyrus, sans, and undyne are together they have this wacky dynamic where they’re all constantly tossing the straight man role around like a hot potato and i want a dumb sitcom about the three of them living in the skeleton household that goes absolutely mental with this wacky dynamic and god damn it i’ll write it myself if i have to

papyrus gets to kin me for this one, there’s like a single phineas and ferb dvd that fell into the underground a few years ago that made its way to him in one way or another [sans probably gave it to him with no way of predicting the special interest hell [positive] he was about to unleash] and he immediately became obsessed. he can recite entire episodes from memory because he watched them so many times the audio got burned into his brain. his favourite character is doof and he considers the annoying dog his personal perry the platypus. when he gets to the surface and finds out that there’s like 200 more episodes he cries with happiness

aroace papyrus also real

it’s getting late so i’m going to leave this here but i am always down to talk about papyrus. i fuckin love papyrus so much guys

[myblueeyedbuggers]

My Boys

Chapter 10

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

Pairings: Reader x Steve Rogers (best friend) Reader x Bucky Barnes

Word Count:1843

Warnings: Slow Start, Language.

Summary: After being abandoned by her parents in Brooklyn in 1929, y/n makes a living for herself by working for the Црни лабуд gang until she meets two boys in a back alley and her life slowing begins to change.

Annnddd I’m back! so I know it’s been a while since the last update and I just wanna thank you all for having patience with me while I finished up with college, just a warning this chapter may feel a little awkward to read due to me just getting back into my writing mind so apologises in advance for this one. Anyways I’ll quit blabbering, Enjoy everyone! :)

This was my day of reckoning, my punishment for all the bad deeds I’d done over the past couple of years…I was finally being sent to school. Okay maybe that was a tad dramatic, but can you blame me? I mean who wants to be trapped in a building against their will for 7 hours straight learning about dead guys?! No sane person would willingly agree to that crap!

I’ve tried just about everything to avoid my approaching doom, hell I even went as far as hiding in the basement surrounded by cobwebs to try and get out of this, but as per usual neither Steve or Bucky took mercy on me, hence why in currently trapped between the two. “You are aware I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ by myself aren’t ya? The looping of the arms is not needed boys” I swear down these two are being more annoying than usual, and I didn’t think that was humanly possible cause these two are basically the living embodiment of annoyance. Steve turned and raised his eyebrows at me, shaking his head as he let out a small laugh, “Yeah there’s absolutely no way I’m fallin’ for that again, last time that happened it look me and Buck an hour to get you outta that tree”. Ah crap there goes that plan.

I’m pretty sure the noise I made wasn’t even human, it was a mix between a seal and a possessed monkey “I’m not gonna get outta this am I?” “Nope” and que another frustrated groan. “Is this payback for the time I placed that bucket of flour above your bedroom door and watched the both of you turn into ghosts? If it is then I want you to know I regret nothin’” both of them stopped and glared at me, for some reason they didn’t find that as funny as I did, and I have no idea why. Okay whatever you do y/n don’t laugh, even if Steve’s face looks like a slapped arse don’t laugh! A snicker slipped past my lips and a few seconds later I was full on laughin’.  Goddamn it.

Both of em just let out a bunch of sighs and started draggin’ my butt along the street, wait there’s somethin’ I haven’t tried yet…in hindsight this is completely stupid but screw it. “OH MY GOD LOOK A SPACESHIP!” I’m pretty sure poor Bucky jumped outta his skin, Steve ended up trippin’ up and falling down, I’ll admit that I felt bad about but hey may plan worked! So why am I still standin’ there?… maybe we try this thing called running y/n! I quickly pulled my arm away from Bucky and used my new-found freedom to run in the opposite direction of them, I could hear the shouts of protest from the both of them, so I decided to kindly ignore them and absolutely leg it.  “GODAMMN IT Y/N! THIS IS THE FIFTH TIME THIS MORNIN’!” when were the boys gonna catch on that I didn’t wanna go? Do I need to prepare a firework show and blast it in their faces or somethin’…probably.  

I know I probably shouldn’t be smiling, but the feeling of the wind flowing through my hair as my feet hit the ground made me feel free, after so many years I could finally begin acting my age and enjoy my childhood. I finally felt content with my life, which is probably the opposite of what I should be feeling at this moment in time, considering I was currently making my grand escape. And to completely honest I’ve got no bloody clue as to where I am. I glanced behind me to see where the hell those idiots were, to my surprise Steve was directly behind me, Buck was somewhere in the back holdin’ his knee and I’m guessing the daft sod decked it. Why am I not surprised? Okay maybe I should of kept my mouth shut cause literally a second later my foot tripped over a rock and, you guessed correctly, I landed on my ass for the thousandth time!

“Sh*t! Cr*p! B*lls! That f**king hurt!” and that ladies and gentlemen is my fine command of the queens English, a groan of pain made me loose my train of thought as I turned my head to Steve, to put it simply he was laid flat on his back with his eye closed. Well there’s the rush of guilt I’ve been waiting for, “Sh*t Steve I’m sorry, you okay down there tough guy?” I quickly offered him my hand to help him up, I mean it’s the least I could do. Steve’s hand grabbed mine, a not so quiet grunt of pain made me feel even worse, quick question why am I such an assh*le at times? “Yeah, I’m fine y/n, don’t worry about it you know for a fact I’ve had worse” a quiet sigh left my lips as I brought him in for a hug, which was a tiny bit awkward due to the height difference. Once we pulled away from each other, I couldn’t supress the need to check him for anymore injuries, much to Steve’s embarrassment and Bucky’s amusement, “Jesus I’m gonna have to start wrapping ya up in blankets and pillows, Steve how the hell did you manage to get a bruise on your ear?!”

The sudden gasp behind me pretty much answered the question for me, it’s safe to say barney boy is in trouble…for the first in my life Bucky looks pretty f**king terrified of me, perfect. Slowly I started inching towards him, the glare I was sending him would probably make a demon cry for his mum…so yeah imma go kill the boy. I didn’t even have to say anything, he just started runnin’, “IT’S NOT MY FAULT HE STOLE MY FR**KING PUDDIN’ AND THE PUNK KNOWS I LOVE MY PUDDIN!’” YEP DEFINITELY KILLIN’ HIM “HE IS A SMALL AND GENTLE BOY HOW IN THE NAME OF HELL CAN YOU EVEN THINK OF LAYIN’ A HAND ON ‘IM?!” god this sounds like a bleeding soap opera.

 At this point I wouldn’t be surprised of someone called the cops on us, all everyone woulda seen was a big lad runnin’ for his life as a small lass tried to murder him while a smaller lad ran after the pair yellin’ for em to quit it.  Now that I think about, that’s actually hilarious. Wait, where was I? ah yes the murdering of one James Barnes…okay that is not a normal sentence I am aware. “HE.STOLE.MY.PUDDIN’! THAT A CRIME WORTHY OF DEATH!” oh for f**ksake “HOW THE HELL DO YA KNOW IT WAS HIM?! DID YOU NOT THINK IT COULDA BE BECCA?!” I think he made a sudden realisation, cause the dumbass stopped running and BOOM I was on the freakin’ floor. Again. We both groaned, mine was mostly in annoyance more than anything, but seriously the bloody floor is quickly becoming me best mate! “…. It just dawned on me that that could be a possibility…” if my neck twisted any quicker I’m 100% sure that I’d end up doin’ that weird owl thing “Oh now you realise?! Ya gonna say sorry to Steve or not?” a few seconds of silence gave me my answer. “Don’t give me that look y/n! I ain’t doing s**t till I’ve got some evidence so he’s still under my list of suspects!” oh my Jesus Christ this is gonna be the day I get arrested for murder isn’t it?

“Barnaby…you have exactly five seconds to run for your life so I highly recommend you get your affairs in order and kiss ya ass goodbye” oh hey look at that I didn’t yell at him! Well done me I’m so proud! “could you two quit trying to kill each other for 5 minutes?! We’re already late enough as is it and I ain’t explainin’ to the teacher why Buck’s outta it on the floor!” my f**kin god Steve just yelled! At me! why do I never have a camera when this s**t happens?  “Jeez, alright I’ll murder him later, calm your damn t*ts Rogers” and cue the sound of barely contained frustration in 3,2,1….

“I’m beginning to get the feelin’ that you don’t like me y/n” oh really? I wonder what gave that away “wow you catch on quickly don’t ya Barnaby?” by the looks of things I’m really doing wonders for his ego, buck’s head looks like it’s gotten smaller so the risk of him turning into a hot air balloon’s gone down. The feeling of a pair of eyes glaring at the back of my head once again reminded me that the blonde boy was quickly getting tired of our crap, my worst fears were confirmed once I met Steve’s surprisingly intimidating glare…how he manages to be both adorable and beyond f**king terrifying is a mystery to me. “Okay I’m comin’ just stop staring at me like I just murdered your kitten!” and the little s**t has the nerve to smirk and look pleased with himself, ugh he’s been hanging ‘round me and Bucky too long that’s for sure.

“Ya know Buck and you are gonna be the death of me” right do I be offended or pleased with that statement? “actually, if anything it’s gonna be the pair of you that send me to an early grave cause god knows the both of ya don’t know how to stay outta trouble” two muffled sounds of protest came from my left and from behind me, “what’s that supposed to mean?!” once again the point has been missed “do you really wanna know the answer to that? I’ve got my report and presentation ready on how you two are a pair of numpties”.

Maybe that was a tad harsh…okay wait never mind it seems I’ve learned how to fly again with the assistance of one James Buchannan Barnes. “this is coming from the girl who can’t walk five feet without fallin’ over somethin’?” as much as I hate to admit it the walking embodiment of frustration and annoyance has a point “what you call fallin’ I call floor hugs, now how about you pUT ME DOWN FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!” wait when did Steve walk off? See this is what happens when an overgrown ape demands attention. I don’t even have to look at Buck to know he’s givin’ me that look that says, “what the hell?” and “I’m not surprised by this” at the same time, “Nah I don’t think that’s gonna happen doll” the temptation to kick ‘im where the sun doesn’t shine is too much to bare for me at this point. “And you wonder why I love Steve more that you” Buck’s face kinda looked like someone just shoved a whole lemon in his mouth, I’m almost certain that he woulda dropped me on my ass if it wasn’t for the fact that Steve came over and dragged us both through the gates of hell.

This is gonna be so much fun!……said no-one ever.  

Okay…maybe it didn’t suck as much a thought it did, hopefully my skills as a writer will come back for the next couple of chapters XD Thanks for reading ! :)

Rose xxx

[milgrammer]

[Theory] First Trial: Haruka

Introduction:

Disclaimer: this post will mention sensitive themes such as homicide, animal abuse, and developmental disorders. Discretion while reading is advised. Furthermore, we are not health professionals. Any diagnoses made within this theory are purely based on independent research. 

So, I posted the first draft of this on the MV under the username ‘Mai x’, but the character limit for a single YouTube comment is stingy—even had to split it into two. This theory has progressed since. Honestly, there’s no point in reading the original. 

In Short:

This theory is founded on the three arguments as follows, strongest to weakest:

Haruka has some degree of autism

Haruka has a brother, likely a twin

The MV retells his memories in chronological order

Haruka and his twin brother grew up with equal amounts of affection until it became apparent that Haruka was mentally developing slower in comparison. Consequently, his mother (figure) engaged with his brother more by going outside with him etc, while Haruka was left with the assistance dog. For this reason, he viewed his brother as competition for attention and began to bully him. 

Later, Haruka fell in love with a girl, possibly named Mirai, but she couldn’t reciprocate those feelings since she favoured his brother, which drove Haruka to strangle her. The authorities caught him in the act, and she survived. His mother (figure), concerned about Haruka’s behaviour, tries to interact with him more, but he is dismissive and believes that she does not believe his explanations. However, still craving her attention and mistaking her frantic words for praise, he continues to hurt other children.

His brother played with Haruka’s assistance dog. Upset, Haruka lured it away. His brother went into the woods looking for it and followed the pawprints. He saw Haruka beating the dog with a stone and tried to stop him, resulting in his hands being dirtied with blood as well. The authorities discover Haruka again, and this time, their mother (figure) had to give them up.

Completely distraught, Haruka blames his brother and drowns him. He is once again discovered by the authorities, but now finally realises that he had been misunderstanding everyone his whole life, and admits that he was the one, who was truly mistaken. 

IN-DEPTH UNDER THE CUT

Some Clarifications:

Heads up. If all three statements are falsified, we’ll be back at square one.

There’s strong evidence to suggest Haruka does have autism as he exhibits many common signs, such as lack of eye contact, having little danger awareness, not understanding social cues, deficits in language comprehension, and so on. The list could continue, but I encourage you to look them up yourself. In my opinion, he exhibits far too many for it to be considered coincidental.

I’m more of a linguistic descriptivist, so when I describe certain phrases as “unnatural/odd” or “expected”, a prescriptivist would consider them to be grammatically “incorrect” or “correct” respectively. 

The existence of his twin is based on the young boy in the MV, and how closely he resembles Haruka. A common interpretation is that this boy is Haruka’s younger self, but there’s more evidence to suggest the former, which will be explained later.

Assuming that the MV retells Haruka’s memories in chronological order is admittedly just a leap of faith. However, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not as crucial. 

Compared to the English version, the original Japanese lyrics are far more ambiguous and have more possible interpretations. It’s partly due to the Japanese language itself, and partly due to Haruka’s grammar. In my opinion, the translated lyrics portray Haruka’s mindset more clearly, so referenced both in this write-up. Any re-translations aren’t meant to discredit the original but should serve as alternatives. After all, I can only imagine how much fun the official translator had with these lyrics.

I’ll be referring to the following, so please acquaint yourself with them:

Weakness MV

Undercover MV

Haruka’s drama CD

Haruka’s profile

Es’ drama CD

Ambiguity/Uncertainties:

It’s safe to assume the lady in the MV is Haruka’s mother, adoptive parent or some sort of guardian, however, there’s not enough evidence to confirm which she is—the difference in hair colours is throwing me off. The line  『ねえどうして 変わらないでよ』 (Hey, tell me why. Please don’t change) has two possible interpretations. The first is that his mother’s attitude towards him had changed, and the second is that his aunt or another woman resembling his mother had adopted them, but Haruka thought that they were the same person. This could also explain why no father figure was shown. For now, she’ll be referred to as the “mother (figure)”. 

We can’t determine whether his brother is autistic as well, albeit high-functioning, or if he’s neurotypical since studies show that if one twin has autism, the other is likely to have it as well¹. The latter is more likely, but what could’ve happened is that Haruka was diagnosed and they assumed his brother also had it. The scene, where his brother plays with the assistance dog, is bugging me.

The number of ‘sins’ Haruka has committed is unknown. The minimum is 3, the girl, the dog, and his brother, while the maximum is indefinite. The line  『昨日をくり返して あきらめって大事だけど』 (I repeated yesterday, though it’s important to give up) could imply that he had hurt several of his peers in a similar manner, and consequently lost hope in establishing relationships with others. He also appears to have morphology and syntax deficits judging from the grammar used there and throughout the song.

Poster Analysis: 

This tweet was posted by Mana Inoue on the visual creation team and showcases the main symbols used in the MV. 

Bear in mind, botany isn’t my strong point. In the comment, I claimed they were yellow carnations, which would represent disappointment and rejection. However, they might be a breed of yellow roses, symbolising jealousy. The more I look at them, the more confused I become. It’s not something worth lamenting over though. Both meanings fit with his storyline.

I think the woman with two angels is meant to be a homage to the various depictions of “Madonna and Child with Two Angels”. The ‘Madonna’ represents the mother figure, while the two angels represent Haruka and his brother, vying for her attention.

The blue-green gradient of the poster frame and the dressing table mirror at the centre of the poster reflecting an underwater image both tie in with how he drowned his brother.

The red moon in the background is considered to be a bad omen in fiction, especially when referred to as a ‘blood moon’, but since Haruka is seen to constantly be waking up from nightmares, we can use Freud’s dream interpretations. In this case, the moon is a yonic symbol and would represent Haruka’s desire for maternal affection. 

MV Analysis:

Things to point out beforehand:

Haruka is an unreliable narrator. His lyrics, especially, shouldn’t be taken at face value.

The title 『弱肉共食』 is an alteration of the idiom  『弱肉強食』 which translated literally would be ‘The weak are meat, the strong eat’ otherwise known as ‘the law of the jungle’ or ‘survival of the fittest’ in English. However, 『強』 is replaced with 『共』 which represents ‘sameness’, so the go-to translation would be ‘weak meat cannibalism’, but to preserve the nature of the idiom, I’d view it as ‘the weak are meat, eat your kin’. 

The original idiom encompasses the notion of ‘competition’, which arises from scarcity. So, why and for what is Haruka competing? Slightly obvious, but it’s attention/affection. He likely viewed it as some sort of rival good i.e. the more the mother figure paid attention to his brother, the less attention Haruka would receive for himself, therefore no brother would equal more attention. Sounds grim, but siblicide isn’t uncommon in the animal kingdom, especially if resources are sparse. This also hints at how Haruka likely had a twin, rather than a younger or older brother since the original would’ve fit just as well were it the latter.

The Japanese subtitles often spell words with hiragana and katakana, where kanji characters would more likely be used. Haruka is around high school age, but, judging from his kanji usage, his comprehension is estimated to be at a sixth grader’s level max. The kanji  『降』 in 『下降』 (kakou/descend) is taught in 6th grade, and the others he uses are taught even earlier. Despite words such as 『僕』 (boku/I) and 『犠牲』 (gisei/sacrifice) being repeated, they’re still written in hiragana. This is probably because they’re normally taught at secondary education, which explains why middle-school level kanji such as 『違』 in 『間違う』 (machigau/to misunderstand) and 『繰』 in 『繰り返す』 (kurikaesu/to repeat) are written with hiragana instead. The implication is that Haruka has learning difficulties—another feature associated with autism.

0:00  It begins with Haruka at a dressing table, implied to be his mother (figure)’s from the cosmetics. The necklace he wears likely belonged to her. Notice its green centre and purple outer layer—those colours are also used for the eyes seen within the MV. This could symbolise his mother (figure) watching over him, and since he wished for her attention, it’d explain why he continues to wear it.

0:05 The reflection in the mirror flickers between Haruka and his twin. This might symbolise how Haruka fears his twin might replace him and highlights their resemblance to one another. The scene transitions to Haruka sinking in a body of water. This water motif suggests that drowning his brother was Haruka’s main sin.

0:20 The drawing of a lady and a boy represents his mother (figure) and his twin—the hand of the boy is outstretched, touching Haruka’s, which implies they were a family of three. He asks why his mother (figure) is distancing herself and if it’s his fault. What might’ve happened was his mother (figure) spent more time outside with his brother, and left Haruka indoors with the assistance dog. His jealousy could’ve clouded his judgment though, and she might’ve spent equal time with them in reality. 

Haruka is in the shadows, avoiding the lights, which could imply that he was never in the ‘spotlight’. The assistance dog wears a harness and appears to be a mix between a Labrador and a German Shepherd—both common breeds used for this line of work. There might’ve been more than one dog and Haruka’s memories fused them together. 

0:29 The boy smiles brightly. Some claim that this boy is a representation of Haruka’s younger self, but I’m doubtful. His resentful lyrics are at a dissonance with the boy’s cheerfulness. Plus, a major sign of autism in children is ‘not reciprocating a smile’, so it’s unlikely for the little boy to be Haruka. I understand that autism is complicated and surfaces differently according to the individual, but Haruka is fictional, and it’d be logical to assume that his character was written with some of the major signs in mind. Not to mention, the only time we see 17-year-old Haruka smile is at the end of the MV after he’s killed his brother.

0:36 The fire-breathing dragon, according to dream interpretations, symbolises being emotionally overwhelmed. Also, the lyrics ‘the words I tried to say were: “you’re unfair/cowardly”’ are probably directed towards his brother. The implication is that Haruka was jealous of his brother, believing that he ‘made himself look weaker’ to receive more attention, but couldn’t express this through words since his language competence was so low. Consequently, Haruka used rudimentary methods to express himself e.g. physical aggression and crying.

In this scene, Haruka pulls his brother’s shirt collar and his frightened expression as he hesitantly looks up at Haruka implies that he already knows what the repercussions for clinging to their mother (figure) are.

0:39 There’s a monster drawing behind Haruka; this represents Haruka’s self-perception and/or his brother’s perception of him, emphasising how he’s viewed as inhuman. 

『ダメ』 [dame] is messy to translate without context. The Japanese subtitles read 『ダメだね』 [dame da ne] but I believe Haruka had misheard his mother (figure) and what she actually said was 『ダメダメ』 [dame dame]. Only one phoneme off. Even though the first could be translated as “You’re hopeless” when used to describe a person, it’s probably a misunderstanding on Haruka’s behalf. In certain contexts or when repeated like this, 『ダメ』 is used to ask someone to stop—a lighter version of 『止めて』 (yamete/stop) and arguably more common. So, his mother (figure) tried telling Haruka to stop bullying his brother i.e. grabbing him and pushing him into puddles etc, but Haruka thought she was insulting him instead. In short, he struggles to understand the contextual use of words.

0:42 “If only I could do what anyone else could do” likely refers to social interactions and the ability to communicate smoothly.

『違った筈の未来は不平等に恋をした』 are the lyrics in a ‘standardised’ form. Some meaning is lost when it’s translated as “The right future unfairly chose the wrong me”, but the translator probably chose it to preserve its ambiguity. A closer version would be “The future, which was supposed to be different, fell in love unequally.” However,  『未来』  (mirai/future) can also be a girl’s name, so it could be translated as “Mirai, who was supposed to be different, fell in love unequally.” Even if that isn’t her name, the gist remains the same—she preferred Haruka’s brother. Some have suggested that she’s their sister, but  『恋をする』 has clear romantic connotations. Doesn’t fully discredit it, but it’s unlikely. Her “falling in love unequally” could be another misunderstanding made by Haruka, which parallels how he viewed the treatment from his mother (figure).

The scene, set as the thumbnail as of now, where Haruka is covering his ears and closing his eyes, depicts him suffering from sensory overload since autism is linked to light and sound sensitivity², and this event takes place at presumably some sort of festival or theme park, judging by the fireworks. He probably still enjoyed the outing since candyfloss is one of his favourite foods.

0:56 His brother steals his girl. What a madlad. As a result, Haruka screams and cries—one of the rudimentary forms of self-expression. This time Haruka uses the verb  『愛する』 [aisuru] a more versatile way of saying ‘to love’, which implies how he craves love in any form. 

What was Haruka denying? Many things probably. He thought that his brother was the root problem, everyone was actively against him and he wasn’t at fault, etc. 

It's important to note that Haruka has a habit of forming sentences using: noun + 『をする』  or  『をしていた』  in the MV, which is the past progressive. It's sometimes common e.g.  『否定をしていた』  (I was in denial) but other times it's unnatural, such as  『悲鳴をしていた』. 『悲鳴を上げていた』 (himei wo agete ita/I was screaming)  is the expected form. It can use 『が』 instead of the 『を』 depending on the context, but it takes 『上げる』 not 『する』. 

It's similar to saying "I was doing a scream" You can understand what the speaker is trying to say, but the wording is odd. More of these sentence structures are present later on. 

The faces of his mother (figure) and the little girl are scribbled out probably because he can’t remember them or what expressions they made. A simplistic explanation, but ASD is linked with having lower development in face processing³, so it’s likely. 

1:04 Haruka is shown shrouded in those yellow flowers. How aesthetic. (Snapchat filter idea?) He then extends his arm towards the girl, but she’s out of his reach—metaphorically. What did Haruka want to confirm? His previously mentioned beliefs. This is why he seems to develop some self-awareness at the end. With his brother out of the picture, there’d be no one else to blame.

1:07 The chorus clarifies that his motive was to gain attention. The  『あっはっは』 is laughter, but I don’t think it’s out of malice. Those with autism often exhibit expressions, which would be considered inappropriate in given social scenarios e.g. laughing at a funeral. I believe that Haruka was frustrated and emotionally overwhelmed, so when he laughed, he was actually trying to weep as he did at the end of the MV.

During the scene where the girl’s shadow is between his hands, no scribbles are present, which represent blood/death. This hints at how he hurt the girl, perhaps by strangulation, but didn’t kill her. Judging from his expression and the round light, probably from a flashlight, he was caught by either a stranger or the authorities. 

Some have suggested that he killed the girl as well, however it’d make more logical sense for the severity of repercussions to reflect the severity of his ‘sins’. Why would the authorities later separate his mother (figure) from him after the dog incident, but pardon him for homicide? Things wouldn’t add up. 

1:30 A lack of cooperative behaviour, i.e. not sharing or taking turns, is associated with ASD⁴, so if his mother (figure) knew, she might’ve been encouraging the two to share. Another possibility is that Haruka might’ve been diagnosed with anxiety or depression, while his autism went undetected. That scene really bugs me. Can you tell? Either way, Haruka isn’t too happy about it. 

His repetition of “I’m fine” implies that he’s brushing off his mother (figure), who’s trying to find out why he’s behaving this way. He misunderstands the word  『外れ』 [hazure]. Another messy word to translate out of context. It roughly means “to miss/be off”. Sometimes you say it when someone answers a question incorrectly or if someone hasn’t gotten the point. To express disappointment, you’d usually say 『期待外れ』 (kitai hazure/not living up to one’s expectations), but the fact that he excluded 『期待』 (kitai/expectation) implies that he’s misunderstood someone again.

His mother (figure) looks at him disagreeably when he tries to explain his viewpoint. This is probably because he views the entire world as being against him.

Haruka lures the dog into the woods and his brother searches for it—having his brother discover the corpse might’ve been his plan as well

He mistakes 『狂ってる』 [kurutteru] for praise. This can mean “You’re crazy”, but there’s neither a subject nor topic marker present, so she could just be saying “this (situation) is insane”. However, this misunderstanding is probably why he continues committing ‘sins’. He’ll take whatever attention he can get, he doesn’t understand the reality of his actions and believes that doing these deeds will make him more ‘human’. 

2:00 『犠牲をしていた』is another instance of the aforementioned sentence structuring.『犠牲にしてた』 with the 『に』 particle would be the expected form, which could mean “I was making a sacrifice”. However, I suspect he was trying to say something like 『僕のことを犠牲にしていた』 or 『僕が犠牲になった』 roughly translating to “you did it at my expense” or “it was at my expense”. That would explain why the official translation was “I became a victim”.

“My loneliness was desired” could entail that he wanted to either be an only child or he purposely pushed people away—might explain why he was trying to brush off his mother earlier. It could also be interpreted as “You desired my loneliness”. In that sense, Haruka would be accusing his brother of trying to isolate him from other people. 

2:10『下降をしていた』 is translated as ‘I was falling’, but since the subject is omitted, he could also be referring to a multitude of things, such as his well-being, grades, reputation, etc. Again, 『下降していた』 would be the expected form and the verb itself is rarely seen outside of technical reports.『下げる』 (sageru/to lower) or 『落ちる』 (ochiru/to fall) would be more commonly used in the vernacular. I can’t provide a direct equivalent since there’s too little context, but I suspect that Haruka heard/read the word somewhere and assumed it to generally mean ‘to go downwards’. 

He goes on to state that his “starting position in life was wrong”; it implies how he’s realised that his way of thinking was innately different from others. We then see the circular light shining over his hands, signifying that the authorities have found out once again. 

2:30 Some trippy visuals. The background is a collage of his afterimages. The Haruka-like silhouette might represent how his brother would’ve grown up by this time had Haruka not killed him.

2:40 This is likely the last memory Haruka had of his mother (figure) and an odd one at that—she stands alone, her posture stiff, the line of suspended lamps being the only other item of interest. I think it depicts her being taken to court. Law isn’t my speciality, but the scene composition does resemble the typical layout of a Japanese courtroom. With the mother (figure) at the witness stand, the lamps could either represent the judicial panel or the prosecution/defence. She might’ve been arrested under the suspicion of child abuse since the various incidents of Haruka’s aggression could be regarded as warning signs. Also, if Haruka’s recounts aligned with his lyrics, it wouldn’t aid her case.

Were the authorities instead concerned about Haruka himself, he would’ve been classified as a juvenile. By this time, I suspect his age to be around 5 to 10. Since the Penal Code of Japan provides that the acts committed by those under 14 aren’t punishable, they probably referred the twins to a correctional facility. In this case, their resemblance and/or the dirtying of his brother’s hands likely played a role since Haruka was separated from his mother, but not him. That wouldn’t be possible if Haruka was admitted alone.

In either scenario, their case would’ve been dealt with in a family court. It’s unclear whether she was separated from them during an investigation or because they’d already taken protective measures, but, either way, this was the probably last time they saw her.

2:45 Haruka is probably referring to his mother (figure) at this point in the MV and wonders where she is. After the incident with the dog, she likely had to relinquish her parental responsibility/guardianship. We no longer see those green-purple eyes after she leaves, which could symbolise how she’s no longer there to watch over him. It’s interesting how Haruka cries from his right eye, while the silhouette among the afterimages cries from its left. I think it’s hinting at how the silhouette is not Haruka, but his brother. This may also imply that when they were both alive, they could’ve been mistaken for one another, which could link to the last line of the song, “it was me”. 

2:52 In a final attempt to get his mother back or to ‘punish’ his brother, which he thought of as the wrongdoer, Haruka drowns him. His lifeless body, indicated by the scribbles, is soaked and Haruka cries atop of him, realising that his brother wasn’t the problem. From Es’ “Undercover” we can see Haruka pushing his brother, represented by Es, into the water, and his brother gasping for air. 

3:28 At the end of the MV, we see the same light, implying that the authorities discovered him once again. Judging by his expression, Haruka finally understands that he was the one at fault. His speech in the background is a repetition of the lyrics without the “ahaha”. From how he speaks, I think the lines 『誰か気づいてよ』 and 『間違っていたのは僕だった』 should instead be treated as a run-on rather than end-stops. And if that’s the case, his spoken lines may be translated as follows: “Please notice me. Someone, please notice that I was the one who was wrong. Yeah, it was me.” It hints at how he not only wants his existence acknowledged, but he also wants someone to understand that his way of thinking is dissimilar to others and especially was during that period. Those last words “yes, it was me” alongside his second file 『申し訳ないなと思っています』 (It’s inexcusable/I feel bad about it) heavily imply that he now understands the reality of his actions and feels remorse.

Drama CD Analysis: 

Key points to note:

Haruka fails to understand the complex constructions Es uses at the beginning and struggles to form them as well. Es notices this and uses easier, more straight-forward sentences later in the interview

He stutters and pauses frequently

He fails to recognise the different meanings of homonyms, in this case, 『起きる』 (to happen/wake up)

He uses 『ごめんなさい』 [gomennasai] when 『すみません』 [sumimasen] would be more contextually appropriate. Both can be translated as ‘sorry’, but the former is far heavier, similar to ‘please forgive me’, whereas the latter is lighter, equivalent to ‘excuse me’ or ‘my bad’. He doesn’t seem to be aware of the contextual difference

Haruka puts heavy emphasis on ‘speaking’. This could suggest that he received speech therapy at some sort of psychiatric institution or rehabilitation centre judging from his clothes. Furthermore, he might’ve enjoyed it or he feels at ease when talking to others since he can finally be ‘understood’

More than other prisoners, he seems attached to Yuno and Mahiru, both being young women with warm demeanours. He eagerly mentions them to Es and when he lists the prisoners he often talks to, he immediately states their names again and leaves pause before mentioning others. He likely enjoys female attention because of his desire for maternal affection. 

He’s afraid of ‘adults’ like Kazui and Shido. It’s unclear if it’s adults in general or specifically adult men, which would make more sense as there’s no father figure present in the MV

He’s afraid of Amane and claims that children her age evoke bad memories. He also seems to be fiddling his hands during that topic. Probably a coping mechanism. He likely committed all of his sins at an age even younger than hers.

He’s afraid of Kotoko, but honestly who isn’t? It’s strange how Haruka gets along with Futa since Kotoko and Futa both have ‘harsh’ personalities. She might remind him of his mother (figure)

Es comments on how Haruka appears to have a lack of fear and has unnatural responses to given situations e.g. smiling when being interrogated

Haruka has a fear of abandonment, claiming if others were to find out about his wrongdoings, he'd be ‘thrown away’

Extras to note:

His type is AB, associated with being ‘dual-natured’. It highlights how he fluctuates between being weak/reserved and having aggressive outbursts

His horoscope is cancer, a water sign. Links in with how his brother was killed

『遥』 His name is written with the kanji meaning ‘far off’ and ‘distant’

In his profile, Haruka says 『僕は人も殺しています』. Interesting how he attached the 『も』 particle to 『人』 (hito/person) rather than 『僕』 (boku/I). Had he attached it to the latter, it would’ve given the impression that he ‘killed someone just like everybody else in the prison’, however, his usage implies that he ‘killed a person as well as something else’. You can work it out, can’t you?

Haruka likely suffers from perpetration-induced traumatic stress (PITS) or perpertator trauma for short. He’s shown to have various PTSD symptoms; for example, nightmares (shown by how he constantly wakes up with a frightened expression on his face in the MV), flashbacks and physical sensations a result of them (both implied in the drama CD). Haruka also seemingly tries to avoid remembering his actions or talking about them, which is another sign of PTSD. We know he dislikes young children since they bring back “bad memories”, so the same likely goes for animals as well. Some sufferers of perpetrator trauma may have nightmares in which they act out the events as the victim rather than the offender. This isn’t as concrete since Haruka and his brother might just look similar, but the boy in the MV could be Haruka in his younger form re-enacting as him. The corpse in the final scene is in the outline of a young boy, but we can’t see his features. Haruka might’ve also forgotten what his brother looked like.

Judgment/Conclusion:

In the future, I’ll probably never be this insistent again, but in Haruka’s case, I’d highly recommend voting “forgive”. I didn’t draw that conclusion out of bias or sympathy; it’s a strategic move. The next set of MVs are based on this trial’s judgment and Jackalope also mentioned in Es’ drama CD (paraphrased): “open up his heart and you’ll hear lots from him”. Therefore, choosing “don't forgive” would likely be to our detriment as the opposite may happen, i.e. he’ll become more reserved or try to suppress his memories even further.

Other than that, there are other valid reasons to vote him as forgivable, e.g. his age, his mental state, his remorse, etc. I suspect some will vote him as unforgivable solely because of the dog incident. After all, the death of an animal tends to evoke a stronger reaction than homicide in fiction... It’s just a hunch.

References:

Tick, B., Bolton, P., Happé, F., Rutter, M. and Rijsdijk, F., 2015. Heritability of autism spectrum disorders: a meta-analysis of twin studies. Journal of Child Psychology and Psychiatry, 57(5), pp.585-595.

Colman, R., Frankel, F., Ritvo, E. and Freeman, B., 1976. The effects of fluorescent and incandescent illumination upon repetitive behaviours in autistic children. Journal of Autism and Childhood Schizophrenia, 6(2), pp.157-162.

Dawson, G., Webb, S. and McPartland, J., 2005. Understanding the Nature of Face Processing Impairment in Autism: Insights From Behavioral and Electrophysiological Studies. Developmental Neuropsychology, 27(3), pp.403-424.

Centres for Disease Control and Prevention. 2020. Signs & Symptoms | Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) | NCBDDD | CDC. [online] Available at: <https://www.cdc.gov/ncbddd/autism/signs.html

[kattegat-kittycat]

Fates Entwined, part VIII: Follow Your Tale, Remember Your Name

After your former clan was brutally murdered, you agree to an arranged marriage with Ivar to keep your social status. You may not always see eye to eye and sometimes even find yourself on different sides of one war or the other, but somehow you can never escape each other no matter how much you try to forget, deny and run. Somehow you always end up in each other’s faces. Sometimes quite literally.

A/N:  So, here we go. This is more of a transitionary chapter to set up a few things, but more will follow and I hope soon. Somehow this story and its world keep expanding and there’s going to be more going on than simply the Ivar-Y/N-relationship and I don’t quite know how this is going to work out, but I enjoy writing it, so I’ll just go where the (writing) flow takes me. It also means a lot of editing and some fact checking here and there, which is why this takes me so long, because sometimes I just can’t bring myself to read through the same chapter for the 27th time. So, sorry for the delay, but thanks for reading it to all of you.

Thanks also to the people who asked to be tagged, I only hope, I won’t let you down: @youbloodymadgenius @xnnskwjeheb2j @blonddnamedhandz 

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

To the moon and back, then you stabbed me in the back

And it’s you who’s sad, see the irony in that

I’m moving a white flag, I see red then I see black

No don’t be sad

Forever never lasts

(Blind Channel – Died Enough For You)

It was funny how fate could bring two people together, only after they decided to part ways. Neither me, nor Ivar actually knew where my departure from Kattegat left our marriage. We never mentioned seperating as we fought and I did have the intention to return to Kattegat, or rather to him. After all, I had promised Aslaug to take care of Ivar. By now I had promised so many different things to so many different people that I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing for myself anymore.

But whatever it was that was between us, it left us no time to wonder. Fate was not easy to escape, no matter how violently you thrashed in its grip. It sure was not as simple as leaving the town your husband lived in.

The first couple of nights, I was staying in Hedeby and Ragnheiđur and I were supposed to leave in the morning, when I experienced first hand what had happened to Ivar and how Ivar had happened to others after I had left. I was almost angry at myself for leaving, when I saw what a moody mess I had left behind.

A happy Margarete had made the unfortunate mistake to come to our home only hours after I had left. She didn’t quite bother to knock, as she was so used to it being only me in our part of the house and Ivar being gone. It had never been a problem for me, her just coming into my room unannounced, but today was different. As soon as she saw Ivar lying on the bed, she realised her mistake and was about to quickly and quietly leave before Ivar would notice her, just as his cold eyes met hers.

“What are you doing here, slave?” he spat at her, looking angrier than ever, “Did you come here to mock me?”

I could see Margarete flinch, fear imprinted on her face. “I…I was looking for Y/N…” she began and Ivar sat up in his bed.

“And why is that? What news could someone like you have for my wife?” My heart skipped a beat. ‘My wife’. It felt utterly and surprisingly comforting to hear the words from him.

Margarete ignored the insult. “Ubbe freed me. He intends to marry me. I meant to tell her that.” She got a little flustered and my heart went out to her. Ivar’s face got dark with disdain.

“Oh, but why would she care?” he asked with a false lightness in his voice.

“We are friends.” Margarete replied with conviction.

Now Ivar laughed haughtily and shook his head. “Oh, Margarete, I believe you are mistaken. Because she left Kattegat at noon and she didn’t even bother telling you.” His voice was sweet poison, but Margarete’s eyes spoke of her mistrust.

“I don’t believe you!”

“Oh, but look around. Do you see any of her belongings?”

Margarete looked around and saw nothing but Ivar’s clothes and trinkets. “What did you do? You made her leave, what did you do now to drive her away!?” she spat at him. I admired her loyalty as a friend, how she did not question my motives, but I also had a bad conscience, because I didn’t tell her about it.

“As you should.” I heard Ivar’s voice in my head, as clear as if he was standing right in front of me. I sat up in my bed, breathing heavily, just as Ivar sat up in Kattegat.

I looked around, but I was alone. I took a few shaky breaths and tried to calm myself down, but I was shaken to the core.

He on the other side smirked and cocked his head. “Interesting.” He whispered into the dark of his room. The game had changed, once again.

*

I got up early, as I couldn’t go back to sleep after that weird episode. So I started readying the horses for our ride from Hedeby to Ripa. I was just about to get some provisions for the way, so we would not have to waste any time looking for food, when Ragnheiđur showed up behind me.

“You are up early, are you so excited to get back to your home?” she asked me, smiling.

I looked at her with a sad smile. “Yes. And no. Of course, I love getting back home and spending time with my people, but I would have loved to share that with Ivar.”

Ragnheiđur squeezed my shoulder. “Well, I might not be Ivar, but I am looking forward to sharing it with you.”

I frowned. “And why is that? It will be a long ride and if you trust my husband, the company is lousy.”

She made an indignant face. “He did not say that!” Her hands on her hips, she looked fierce.

“No, he didn’t really say that. But he didn’t seem that interested in seeing what is close to my heart. It has always been his father, his revenge, avenging his father, making his father proud…” I rolled my eyes. “I mean, I get it, there are a lot of expectations resting on the brothers’ shoulders, but nobody would expect Ivar to go.”

Now Ragnheiđur shook her head. “Oh Y/N, that is where you missed the point. Especially because no one ever expected anything of him, he wants to show the world what he is capable of. Just think of yourself, didn’t you feel the same need? To prove to the world that you are not just a little girl they can scare away?”

I shrugged. “Maybe, mostly I was angry because they killed my family…”, and wasn’t that exactly, what motivated Ivar right now? “Okay, I see where you’re going with this. He has a valid point. But still, he disregards my feelings and my wishes, he tries to manipulate everybody around him, I mean… I love him, but I hate it when he tries to manipulate me and even more when he thinks he has to manipulate me to get his way. He is just like his mother in that aspect.”

Ragnheiđur snorted dryly. “Let me get breakfast and then we will ride. I believe there is a lot you need to tell me about you and your Ivar.”

And I told her everything. She was silent for the most part, but asked a few questions here and there. When I had finished, she shook her head.

“This union of yours, it is nothing out of this world. And you should really get to the bottom of this before this whole mess spirals out of control.”

I looked at her for a long time, then I sighed. I knew she was right, but I was afraid what I was going to discover. And I did not want to talk about this anymore. “But what about you Ragnheiđur, are you married?”

She gave a light hearted laugh. “No, and listening to your stories, I am really glad I am not. There are few eligible men in Hedeby and most of them are either already promised to other women or they are too scared to ask for my hand.”

I chuckled. “So this is why you wanted to come to Ripa with me.”

She joined in my laughter. “Right, you got me”, she rolled her eyes playfully. “No, it is just… I have never been further than Kattegat. I know everything and everyone in Hedeby. I wanted some sense of adventure and challenge. And Lagertha knows that. She probably doesn’t expect me back in Hedeby anytime soon.”

Returning to Ripa was different this time. We were given a warm welcome right away and went straight to my estate, where Ole paid us a visit. He had anticipated the same trouble I had, so he was happy to see me back with time to spare before our warriors would come by. He also told me that other earls in the area had tried to encroach upon my lands and especially from Bork to the north of Ripa, at the Ringkoebing fjord. The farmers up there started to try and take away land from mine, another matter I would have to address at the Thing assembly that – as he told me – would take place in a couple of weeks. Ragnheiđur was there and listened to everything, asking a few questions and then listening again. I understood what Lagertha meant when she said that Ragnheiđur was good in a crisis. She had a bright head on her shoulders and we already had a plan of how to get ahead of any trouble that might be brought on by the return of the men from the Mediterranean.

After the death of my uncle, his kin, and his followers, there were estates to be taken care of, so anybody of the men who wished to stay in Ripa and not go on any further raids could get a plot of land. We would talk to the wives of the returning warriors, ask them how they felt about the change in leadership and what they expected of a good and just leader. Ole already said that one of those things would be for me to be present and not with my husband in Kattegat or on a raid and it was confirmed as we made our inquiries. I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose when he had left. Maybe Ivar was right, maybe being his wife would have been enough of a job for me. But I would not give up. I could not give up, now that people depended on me. Ragnheiđur patted my shoulder when we were done and smiled encouragingly.

“You look just like Lagertha did after her first week as an earl. You’ll get used to it.” She chuckled then readied herself to go to bed. She was better prepared for this than I was and I had a feeling that Lagertha had known that.

*

Weeks went by, Björn and his men had returned, preventing Ivar, Sigurd and Ubbe from killing Lagertha, and then Hvitserk had not only told his brothers that he thought it a bad idea to kill Lagertha now, but he had also taken the time to explain to a furious Ivar why it would not be wise to kill the woman now. He did not mention to Ivar, how he thought that their mother had probably had it coming, but Ivar could read enough in between the lines to know that Hvitserk had his mind set on Aelle first and foremost and didn’t care that much about ever avenging their mother.

But the preparations took too long for his impatient thirst for revenge and he was lost. For once, he did not know, where to go or who to talk to here in Kattegat. His mother and Y/N had gone, both in their own ways and he knew of the politic troubles Y/N had to take care of in her own home town. Oh, how he loathed politics like these, the little deals, the whole fragility of it all. But he did watch on with awe at how she managed her community, as often as he got glimpses of it. Their connection was a weird one, waving in and out of existence, getting stronger and weaker in random instances. It was mostly small scences out of her or his life they shared, always somewhere in that space between sleep and awake. On some rare occasions, he had been able to comment on something or heard her voice talking to him. But neither of them could control those small glimpses and they were gone as soon as one of them awoke.

His brothers were wrapped up in fucking either Margarete, Astrid or other men and trying to keep other people from finding out, so he prefered to gather the intel, but not bother them. Also, they had the annoying tendency of not listening to what he had to say or – if they did listen – using what he said against him at a later time. They were such heroes. He snorted. But there was one good thing about the men returning from the Mediterranean; Floki was back. It was a long crawl, even though – thanks to the rapid growth of the town – his home was no longer that far away from the life of the town. He could still remember when Aslaug had brought him here the first time. The journey had felt much longer then, most of the way being uncharted wood land. He remembered her words as clearly as if it had been yesterday.

“Floki, I came to deliver my precious son into your hands. This is Ivar, who I love more than anyone else alive. And, Floki, I know he is clever. I want you to teach him the ways of our Gods, teach Ivar the true path. Teach him to hate the Christian God as you hate the Christian God! Only you can do it, not Ragnar. I will bring him to you every day. Teach him to be a Viking, teach him the deep and ancient ways.” And that had been exactly what happened. None of his brothers understood why these Christians didn’t deserve to live after they had condemned his father to death. None of them. Only he did, because he had been crawling out to Floki’s home and listened to his stories, every single day of his young life. And Floki’s stories had always been worth the way.

As he entered today, though, he was faced with a surprise. “She will make a good slave.” He tried to say something nice about the odd scene he found, with a strange child being tended to by Helga.

“She is my child!” Helga exclaimed. And where Ivar had always thought that Floki was the crazy one out of the two of them, he was now proven wrong. He shrugged it off, that was Floki’s matter, not his.

After Helga and Tanaruz had left and Floki had gone back to being his old self with Ivar, he was able to finally ask for what he had come for.

“I cannot crawl around the battlefield…” he mentioned. Floki looked at him and Ivar could see how the little wheels inside the boat maker’s head started to turn and spin and work. He loved Floki for many reasons, but he was almost envious at his ability to build everything his mind could think up and the way there was nothing his mind couldn’t think up. Ivar smiled, happier than he had been in the past weeks. Since Y/N had gone. And well, there she was again. He clenched his jaw in anger, which Floki did not fail to notice.

“Ivar, if you don’t mind me asking, where did Y/N go? I have heard the wildest stories, from her being an earl in some far away earldom to you killing her and feeding her to the boars. What happened to the two of you?”

Ivar’s fist clenched. “She decided I wasn’t enough for her. Lagertha gave her what she had wanted all along and away she went.” He turned to Floki with angry tears in his eyes.

Floki shook his head. “I don’t believe you for a second. That girl? She really liked you and believe me, we all were confused as to why she liked you. But Gods, was she fond of you.”

Ivar’s self-controll burst and he shouted: “She did not care about me! All she cared about was the influence she could gain by marrying me! And now she is acting like I am the one that hurt her!”

Floki went by Ivar and gave him a slap on the back of his head. “Stupid boy! She adored you more than she probably had reason for. Stop wallowing and just tell me why she left. If you want to keep on drowning in self-pity, I’ll give you something to be sour about.”

Ivar gave a grunt and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Then he recounted the story as far as he knew it. Told him about their connection, showed Floki the scar on his shoulder.

When he saw that, Floki took a step back, eyes wide. “What has your mother done?” he whispered, intrigue drawing him closer again. He reached out his fingers to touch the scar, but in the last moment before he would have actually touched Ivar, he flinched away as if he had been burned.

Ivar’s voice drawled, as he cocked an eyebrow. This question started to bore him. “We don’t know, what has she done, will you tell me? Nobody we asked knew about it, they all just looked at us with pretty much the same expression you do now.”

“That”, and Floki pointed to the scar, “That is old magic. That is something I don’t know enough about and even our seer won’t be able to help you with” (he couldn’t, Ivar had already tried) “This is the domain of the völva and the völva alone.”

“Are you saying my mother was a völva?” Ivar asked, intrigued.

“Yes and no. She was a seer, but she never seriously worked on the practical magic which being a völva involved, maybe she tried the odd ritual here and there, but she was never as deeply commited as she would have had to be to actually work some magic. But I fear she attempted something and the result was more than she had bargained for.”

“Which did not keep Y/N from running off to her earldom as soon as she…as she…” Again, tears were in Ivar’s eyes and he angrily blinked them away. Floki was taken aback by that display of emotions, rarely had he seen Ivar that vulnerable.

“What, Ivar? What did she do?”

Ivar closed his eyes and shook his head. “She broke my heart, Floki. She broke my heart and she took part of it with her.” He hated himself for feeling this weak.

“Like she should, because part of your heart will always be hers. I have seen you together, Ivar. We all have. And believe me, no one had ever thought they would see you that happy. So, why did she go away?”

“She said she had urgent business in Ripa and she left.”

“She just left?” Floki echoed, voice hollow from disbelief.

“She might have asked me to come with her.” Ivar said and looked away to the side. He sounded like a headstrong child, but he didn’t care.

“Then why didn’t you go with her?” Floki asked, almost exasperated. His long fingers at his temples.

“Because father told me to avenge him. And that happiness is nothing compared to bringing honour to our people.”

Floki groaned and put his face in his hands. “Ivar, your father, I loved him, but as great as he was, he was not without fail. Your father was many things, but he was not a happy man, because of the decisions he made along the way to greatness. He was a great man, but rarely have I seen him happy after he left that small farm that was the beginning of this town to go into the world. Why follow the advice of a man killed by his own ambition?”

Ivar looked at Floki for a long time, heart heavy. “I promised him, Floki. And I cannot break my promise. I will not let father down.”

“Oh, you Lothbroks! You are such fools sometimes. Believe me when I tell you that you broke her heart just as much as she broke yours.”

“We kind of had sex, Floki. I am not as boneless as everybody thought I was!” Ivar suddenly burst out with a grin.

At first he was confused by the quick change in subject, but then Floki’s face lit up. “Really?”

Ivar gave a nod. “Yes! I could, I… I reacted.”

Floki gave a single, joyful laugh and clapped his hands together. “Ivar, maybe your mother did know what she did after all.”

 *

I groaned when I woke up. Of course he had to go tell Floki about that night. I got up quickly and went to get some water from the well. Although it was early, the town was already busy. Some of my men were preparing to leave for Kattegat to join the Lothbroks’ army on their raid to Northumbria. I was thinking about joining their journey to Kattegat to see them off and to see Ivar, even though there was a lot to be done here in Ripa as well. Ragnheiđur and I had been preparing for the Thing meeting that would be today, which meant that we would have to leave into the direction of the Thingstead soon. I would have to show a strong hand to keep my claim to all of my lands against Earl Magnusson of Bork, but also against the other earls of Jutland. As we all knew, it would mean war if they did not adhere to my requests to leave my lands alone and none of us wanted war, especially not in these days. At least that was what Ragnheiđur kept telling me. And if they accepted me, depended on how willing I looked to defend my lands to the blood.

We arrived early and were closely eyed by the other earls who had seen each other before. I, on the other hand, was a newcomer and had to introduce myself to most of them, though some of them remembered me as a child and told me just that. I wasn’t sure if they meant to belittle me or question my position, but no one dared to openly speak against me. One of the first matters in the Thing was just that: who was I, what was my intent as earl and how would I contribute to the community in Jutland.

The chieftain and leader of the Thing asked me straight away, why I had killed my uncle and all of his kin and followers and I stepped forward, looked the earls in the eyes, one after the other, then shook my head.

“I know, you had already accepted him into your midst as the earl of Ripa, but were you not aware of the fact that he had his own brother, my father, and his whole family killed?”

Earl Magnusson snorted. “Well, he cannot possibly have had your whole family killed, when you are standing right here in front of us.”

Murmurs arose, but I looked him dead in the eye. Oh, how I hated a smart ass. “You want to know why that is, Earl Magnusson? The reason for that is that he intended to take me as his second wife to validate his claim. I escaped to Kattegat, where an old friend of my mother gave me shelter and later married me off to her youngest son. The influence I gained, I used to gather a small but loyal army to reclaim Ripa. And as you are able to see, with me standing right in front of you today, I was successful. The people of Ripa accepted me as their earl and I would like to tell them that all of you peacefully agreed to accept my claim as well.”

The Earl of Toender raised his hand. “And this mysterious husband of yours, where is he? Why didn’t he come to strengthen your position? You are just a woman after all.”

I glared at him. If he didn’t like women in positions of power, I would give him something to hate. “First of all, because he trusts that I am very well able to hold my own, even against old men with antiquated world views like yours.” Another murmur went through the room. “Secondly, he is preparing to assemble the greatest army in the history of our people to avenge his father, Ragnar Lothbrok, who was killed by King Aelle in Northumbria.”

A younger man sitting behind Earl Magnusson looked up at me. “You are married to one of Ragnar Lothbrok’s sons?” he asked, interested.

“Yes, his youngest, Ivar Ragnarsson. Why do you ask?” I replied questioningly.

“I heard of their efforts to raise another army, I just wasn’t sure it was the truth, as many warriors, me included, only just returned from the raid to the Mediterranean under Björn Ironside’s lead.”

“This revenge is the reason Ironside returned from the Mediterranean right now, as far as I know, but my information is a few weeks old. Some of my men stayed in Kattegat, ready to leave as soon as the army sets sail, but some of them wanted to see their wives and children before they left again.”

The young man smiled. “Well, I returned, because I left a leg in Spain”, he gestured to the place where his right shin should have been and grinned crookedly, “but many of our men would be willing to leave for a raid like this. Wouldn’t they, father?” He looked up to Earl Magnusson and I almost choked on the words I had intended to say.

The chieftain interrupted us anyway: “We can talk about this matter after we have brought the question about Ripa’s rightful holder to an end. Is there anyone who opposes Y/N [Y/F/N]sdottir’s claim to Ripa and all its lands?” he threw a sharp look to Earl Magnusson of Bork, but nobody raised their hand or voice, which meant, the Thing had accepted me. I looked at Ragnheiđur, who smiled encouragingly at me.

Then Earl Magnusson’s son, by now we knew that his name was Birger, returned to the subject of the raid against the Saxons. “Why don’t we send a combined force from Jutland to Kattegat? We have a fleet of ships waiting to be tested in Bork. That would be the fastest way to Kattegat. We could ask our men, who of them wants to leave, send a messenger to Kattegat and tell them when our forces would arrive to support their efforts.”

It wasn’t the worst idea I had heard today. It would save us valuable time and form a tighter bond between the earldoms of Jutland. And I wasn’t the only one convinced, so we talked everything through and it was decided that our men would depart from Bork in a week’s time and the messenger was sent to Kattegat right away.

When we finally left the actual assembly, I looked at Ragnheiđur. “So, that is some weight off my shoulders. But what does that mean for you? Will you return to Hedeby? Sailing with them to Kattegat and continuing on horseback back to Hedeby would probably be the fastest way for you to get there…” I trailed off, when her smile sank.

“I feel like we only got here. I don’t want to leave right away. Also”, now she grinned from ear to ear, “I gave the messenger a message for Lagertha that I would be staying here to help you prepare for the winter.”

“But don’t they need you back in Hedeby for that?” I asked.

She shook her head. “They have three capable leaders in Torvi, Astrid and Lagertha, I am nice to have, but not necessary. Unless you want me gone, of course.” She grinned and cocked her head.

I shook my head. “I don’t want you gone, it’s just… I don’t know how I can repay you or Lagertha for sending you with me.”

“I don’t know about Lagertha, but you can repay me by figuring out your problems with your husband. You should go to Kattegat with our men.”

“Ivar won’t let me go to fight the Saxons with him and he won’t stay in Kattegat or come to Ripa with me, so why go to Kattegat?” I asked her, slightly frustrated with the situation. I was too proud to admit to her that I had already played with the thought myself.

She lightly touched my shouder and smiled at me. “Because you love him. You have told me everything about the two of you, and the one thing I could see was the affection you held when you were talking about him. You need to see him and you need to fix this awkward distance that is between you right now. Tell him how you feel. He might die in Northumbria and he would know, but he would have never heard the actual words from you, knowing that you mean them.”

I stared into the distance for a long time, before I looked back at her, face serious. “I hate how right you are. So, let’s go talk to Earl Magnusson.” I was about to walk toward the earl and his son, when she held me back.

“You know there is another thing you need to do. You need to talk to someone who can tell you what exactly it was that Aslaug did to you.”

“Well, the only person able to do that was Aslaug and she is long gone…” I drifted off.

For the first time I saw something like impatience in Ragnheiđur. “And this is where you are wrong. There is this woman living out in the marshes beyond the town limits, she knows about ancient magic.”

“Are you talking of Yrsa?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

“Yes! She is a völva, she could help you!”

I looked to the ground, feeling childish. Yrsa had been old when I was still a child. And she had given me the creeps back then, still did today.

“You cannot be serious”, I heard Ivar’s mocking voice in my head, “She could help and you don’t want to see her, because she scares you?”

I closed my eyes and groaned. “Who is asleep at this time of day?!” I asked loudly and impatiently.

“I had an exhausting afternoon preparing for battle”, I saw flashes of him riding in a chariot Floki had built him, it was exhilirating, but I shook my head, “Oh, you already know…” he whispered conspiratorially.

“Just wake up and leave me alone.” I whispered angrily.

His voice was gone. Silence. Then Ragnheiđur looked at me, slightly worried.

“We should get this cleared up sooner rather than later, Y/N.” she said and tried to keep her face neutral, though I could tell that she was slightly uncomfortable with my behavior.

I shrugged. “It’s been like this for weeks now, I have almost gotten used to it by now.”

She looked me straight in the eyes. “But until today it has never happened while you were awake, has it?”

I stared back at her, mouth open. She was right. I took a deep breath. One step in front of the other. First we would close out the Thing, look like sane people, and ride back to Ripa. And then we would try to see Yrsa as soon as possible. And “we” in this case did not include Ragnheiđur, but me and Ivar.

[crushedbyhyperbole]

Beyond Broken - Chapter One

Summary:  Thor struggles with his failure after losing The Infinity War to Thanos.  He spirals into depression, leaving both The Avengers and his Asgardian kin behind.  He is unable to cope with the scale of his loss so he seeks solitude in a small seaside town in Connecticut, where no one recognised him.  There he meets a woman (Jess) who has also lost everything.  Their connection leads to happiness but something looms on the horizon and threatens everything Thor holds dear.  Just as night is to day, light follows darkness, but as the couple learns in an all-too-bitter twist of fate, darkness comes right back around again to finish the job.

Famdom:  MCU, Thor, Avengers

Words:  30k WIP

Warnings:  Survivor’s guilt, depression, self-loathing, angst, sexual content (explicit and fluffy), mild/hinted homophobia directed to secondary character, violence of the canon-typical variety, bit of stalking, and probably some bad language (as standard).

A/N:  This is the first MCU fic I ever started writing, and I hope to do the characters justice.  It’s an angsty tale with feels but it’s likely to have an unhappy ending, so you have been warned.  There are spoilers for Endgame in here for those who still haven’t seen it, and eventually the story will come to be an alternate plot for Endgame. Once again, it’s going to be dark at the end, but there are other universes than these and this is but one of the fourteen million possible endings spoken of by Dr Strange in Infinity War ;)

For more chapters see my Thor Odinson Mobile Masterlist

The Life of Jessica Walker

It had been ten months to the day when a once happy-go-lucky girl lost her whole world.  Jess Walker remembered that day as if it were only yesterday. Each day since had felt the same; hollow, broken, desperate.  The emptiness was ravenous.  It engulfed and ravaged, sapping all but the bleakest of emotion from her.  Ten months without him.

Will Tanner had been the love of her life.  He’d been with her through the loss of her father and then, soon after, the loss of her mother.  They’d made a life together.  Had a nice house in New London.  Good jobs. Pet iguana.  Holidays around the world.  And an engagement ring with an open-ended shelf-life; they’d been married in every way other than the piece of paper that confirmed their status.  Eight years of love and commitment lost in a finger snap.

She’d awoken that morning to the blaring ringer of the bedside telephone.  Groggily she’d answered to a hysterical David, Will’s younger brother.

“Jess.  It’s David.  I need Will.  Mom’s gone.”

Confused and still shrouded in the slovenliness of sleep, it took her a while to realise that David was saying that their mother had passed away.

“Oh my god!”  She gasped, tears instantly springing to her eyes. Turning quickly on the bed to rouse Will she saw he was not there.  “Hold on, he must be in the bathroom.”  She said to David before calling for Will to come to the phone.

There was no response.

She shuffled out of bed quickly, taking the cordless phone with her out into the hall.  The bathroom door was open and the light was off. None of the lights were on.  Had Will stepped out for a walk or to get some breakfast takeaway.  The clock said 9.15am.  Shit!  They were late for work.

“David, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to say.”  Jess returned to their bedroom.  Will’s suit hung on the wardrobe door where he’d put it the night before, ready for work. “He’s not here.  Let me try his cell and call you back.”

David sobbed as she hung up without waiting on a reply.

Jess had been frantic after ringing Will’s personal and work phones to find them both in his briefcase. She’d scoured the counters and bedside units for a note he may have left.  It was then that she noticed the dust.  It was all over their bed, under the covers, swirling in the air as she moved the blankets.

What in God’s name was going on?  Maybe Will had somehow heard the news of his mother and left in a hurry, but both sets of car keys were still on their hooks.  Her panic increased.

It wasn’t until later, after an hour of stressing and crying, consoling David, speaking to friends and co-workers that she finally understood what had happened.  There’d been some kind of alien attack and half of the population had been disintegrated.  She didn’t know the ins and outs, she never kept up with the news because it was depressing but she turned the TV on now to see all channels reporting the horrors that had happened in the night.

Numb, and with the heavy lump of despair sitting in her chest, she stared but didn’t really see the TV as the news caster described the events.

They were saying the effect was world-wide, fifty percent of all life on earth, at random, all gone, turned to dust.  And her William had been one, his mother too.  Her friends and co-workers also, she’d not gotten responses from some, had they been vanished as well?  And Iggy? She looked over to the large vivarium but that too was empty.

She sobbed again, even their pet was gone, she truly had nothing left of their life save material possessions and memories.  She was alone.

Ten months on she still felt the pain of loss but she knew Will would not have wanted her to spin out in a downward cycle of despair and depression.  In some ways the world had moved on, in others it was impossible to fully accept the catastrophic changes.  Jess continued to work as a Dentist, she was lucky that the practice had not folded like so many other businesses, although she was just going through the motions each day.  It was difficult to plug away day in day out when you knew life could be sucked away in the blink of an eye.

Ever since that first day, she’d been as supportive to David as possible.  He took it very hard, losing mother and brother in the same day.  It gave her peace to know that she could help them; David and William Sr. were the last ties she had to the life she’d thought she had secured.  She’d found a purpose in this new world of broken things.

Jess finished at the practice and gathered her things to meet David.  The sky was overburdened with ominous dark clouds and the air was thick with the tension of an oncoming storm.  She walked the three blocks to the little coffee shop on Neptune where she and David met five days a week.  He was waiting for her outside with a cup of her favourite tiramisu hot chocolate, a genuinely warm smile, a soft kiss on her cheek and a yappy Papillon called Daisy Duke.

“It’s nice to see the weather has changed.”  She raised a sarcastic eyebrow, accepting the warmth of the paper cup in both hands. It had been weeks since she’d seen the sun.  She sipped and sighed.  “How are you?”

Today was Tuesday, the first day in her David support week.  Sundays and Mondays she had to herself, but Tuesdays were usually his worst. They walked towards the park.

“Not good.”  He shook his head, hunching his shoulders against the chill carried off the ocean by a strengthening wind.  “Dad’s pretty demanding, I can’t deal with his disappointment.  It’s like, even now, he can’t accept that his other son died and to treasure the one he has left.  To him, the wrong son died.  It’s crippling me, Jess.  You don’t even see it!  He acts differently when you’re there.”

“It’s hard for you both, you’ve lost so much.”  She gave him a reassuring squeeze on the forearm.  “Is he still going to that support group for survivors of Disintegration Day?”

“Yeah, he is.”  David looked at the ground.

“Well that’s great! That should help him loads.”  Jess beamed, her enthusiasm dropping away when she saw the look on his face.  “Why do I get the feeling that it’s not though?”

They crossed the street to Ocean Beach Park where David let Daisy off her leash.  The sky had darkened further with the downward progression of the obstructed sun and the thickening of the clouds.  He kicked pebbles as they walked the paths of the park.

“I dunno, Jess.” David sighed, defeated.  “He’s great when he’s getting ready to go out. Sunday afternoons are nice.  He’s chipper, you know?  Almost happy.  He goes to group in the early evening and it’s like he’s how he used to be when mom…” He swallowed hard.  “But then he comes home, sees me and it’s like he’s disgusted.  Like maybe he knows.  But I’ve been so careful.  I dunno what to do anymore.”

She drew him into a hug and squeezed him tight.  His arms tightened around her back as he sniffed into the shoulder of her jacket. Jess once thought, if she closed her eyes, it almost felt like holding Will again.  After all, they were the same height and build, slim and lean. She knew then, just as she knew now, that she couldn’t ever go down that road, no matter how much she wanted to keep Will alive it could only be in her heart.

“It’s not you.”  She crooned.  “You’re only trying to be happy, David.  No one can blame you for seeking something bright in times as dark as these.”

“I know.”  He nodded, pulling away.

“You’ll feel better once you’ve blown off some steam and that hot man of yours.”  She wiggled her eyebrows comically, grinning the goofiest smile she could muster.

Her reward was a genuinely abashed laugh that burst from him involuntarily.  It both soothed and pained her heart.  He reminded her so much of Will sometimes it nearly killed her.

“You’re terrible!” The blush suited him.  He stuffed his hands into his pockets and settled into a slow walk at her side.  “So what’s new with you since I saw you on Saturday?”

“Oh nothing much, you know me.  Same shit, different day.”  It was easier for him if she didn’t burden him with her feelings.  She knew he struggled enough with his own issues, and for the time being she was coping.   The mantra I can do this chanted over and over in her head each morning seemed to work enough to get her moving, and once she had momentum it was easier to follow it through the day.

At seven o’clock on the dot his phone rang.

“Got to go.”  He handed her the leash.  Daisy was still sniffing around the shrubberies and grasses nearby.  “I’ll meet you back at Neptune’s at ten?”

“Yep, the usual.”  She offered him a weak smile.

“Thanks so much for continuing to do this, Jess.  I dunno what I’d do without you.”  He grinned and dashed off in the direction of amazing sex and short-lived happiness.

It wasn’t that Jess resented being David’s wingman, so to speak, or that he was essentially living a lie. She didn’t even mind that she’d put everything else in her life on hold to be his anchor, or that five days a week she was out in the cold being a dog-sitter.  It was that he’d made no effort to help himself.  No counselling, no psychiatrist, nothing but her; he’d latched onto her almost immediately and she’d gone with it.  She wasn’t exactly one to talk about self-help, mind you, she’d gone to therapy two, three, and four months after Disintegration Day. She’d got to a point where she couldn’t see past the emotions she had, couldn’t see anything else for herself and she’d accepted that as her reality.  Accepted this as her life now.

Daisy came back with a stick, which she threw for the dog again and again.  She seemed to have boundless energy and be completely care free. Jess wished she could feel the same but the sickness of loss had settled too deep, so deep in fact, that she thought she’d never feel any different.  But that was all on the inside, and she covered it over with a warm smile and a bright disposition.  Smile even when the inside is nothing but ash.

Walking the boardwalk with the wind buffeting her hair into a wild mess, Jess was alone.  It was well after nine, all of the people had left save for a few coming and going from a gym up at the top of the park.  She’d been strolling and playing with Daisy for hours, thankfully the dog loved her so it wasn’t a hardship.

Jess hummed a tune into the wind as she walked, it was the most peaceful she felt on any given day. Just her, the ocean, the briny air, the sting of the wind on her cheeks and in her eyes.  The tears that welled up could have been attributed to the blustering wind but they weren’t.  When they fell hot on her cheeks and chilled instantly she swiped them away with her jacket sleeve.  She’d cried enough.  The next droplet to land wasn’t a tear.  The rain had begun.

Urging herself forward she picked up her pace, heading back to the café before the rain became a deluge. Ahead there was a man sat on one of the benches.  The lamp above illuminated his large form, hunched over, elbows resting on his knees. He wore a grey jersey hoodie with the hood up, grey jogging pants and a pair of running shoes.  The peak of a baseball cap poked from under his hood.

The rain had darkened his clothing over his head, shoulders and the tops of his thighs already, and he showed no sign of moving.  As she passed she felt a jolt of fear.  Muggings were rare in New London, but there were still those who sought a thrill in harming or terrorising defenceless women.  She wasn’t exactly defenceless.  She clasped the can of mace in her pocket tightly until she felt safe. The man hadn’t even looked up at her as she’d passed and several glances behind her told her what she needed to know; through sheets of slanting rain he sat there alone, unmoving.

David was apologetic and late.  The barista in Neptune’s had patiently allowed her to remain in the shop even after ten o’clock closing on account of the rain.  He accepted his, now cold, latte with pleading eyes.  A large hickey low on his neck told her that he’d well and truly enjoyed the unplanned overtime on his secret tryst.

With Daisy stuffed inside his jacket they ran the three blocks back to the practice.  In the underground parking garage David babbled about how amazing Silas was, how in love they were, how he wished they could just run away together.

Jess nodded and ahhh’d in all the right places, listening to the happiness bubbling out of him.  It was nice to see him smiling for more than a brief second.  Something must have really happened tonight to make him this excited, but she didn’t pry, he’d tell her eventually, he always did.

Home alone Jess flopped onto the cream leather couch still in her wet coat, where she fell into a troubled sleep.

The rest of the week things panned out in much the same way.  The storm that had blown in on Tuesday night was gone by Wednesday morning only to return again on Wednesday night, Thursday night and also Friday night. By the time she got home on Friday Jess had taken the hint and packed a long waterproof ponceau and some knee-high boots into the trunk of her car, for next time.

David had been late every day that week, leaving her waiting in the rain when the Neptune’s staff had inevitably had to leave at well after eleven o’clock.  Jess had been less than impressed with him, it had felt disrespectful. She soon felt guilty for being annoyed with him, and her frustration hadn’t lasted long.

Each night, on her walk along the boardwalk she had encountered the ‘lonely man’, as she internally named him.  It was as if he sat awaiting the rain, watching as the sky blackened and the air filled with cascading torrents.

On Friday the park emptied earlier than usual, the regularity of the rain driving people away back to their homes.  Jess had no such luck, having to wait on David and his booty call.

“Don’t be bitter.” She muttered to herself.  “He’s happy.”

She’d paused midway along the wooden decked walkway, watching the last of the light die, shrouding the rolling clouds in night.

A noise behind her made her jump.  The lonely man sat on his usual seat, in his grey hoody and jogging pants.  Maybe her talking to herself had disturbed him, maybe her presence distracted him from his meditations, but he looked at Jess with one piercing blue eye. The other was in shadow under his hood.

Daisy was pulling on her leash to go sniff the man.  He didn’t seem phased at all, or indeed amused by all the huffing and puffing the little dog was doing, straining to get closer.  He was stoic, troubled even, obviously wanting solitude.  She could relate.

“Don’t mind us.”  Jess offered a quick smile and a nod before scooping the dog up in her arms and turning back to the waves crashing on the beach.

Half past nine came and there was no rain.  Thunder grumbled in the distance but the sky did not weep.  Jess could almost feel the electricity in the air.  When this storm came it was going to be massive.

AC/DC Back in Black played from her pocket, shocking her out of her daze enough that she nearly dropped the dog over the railing onto the sand.  Fumbling for her phone she swore bitterly.

“Hello, David is everything alright?”

“It’s ten, where are you?” He sounded stressed.

“Still down by the beach, I lost track of time.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh I’m sorry, am I keeping you waiting this time?  Shoe’s on the other foot is it?  At least it’s not raining.”  She snapped.

“Ok I deserve that. Where are you, I’ll come down?”

“I’m by marker twelve. See you in a few.”  She stuffed the phone back into her pocket and repositioned the dog in the cradle of her arms.

David approached at a jog, breathless when he arrived, planting a hasty kiss on her cheek before accepting Daisy into his own embrace.

“I was worried.”  He said with gravity.

“You don’t get to lecture me on punctuality, David, you kept me waiting for hours in the rain three nights in a row.”  Jess let her annoyance flow into her tone.

“I said I was sorry!” He pushed back.

“Yeah, let’s just go.”

Jess turned to leave. The lonely man met her gaze with an amused half-smile, he acknowledged her with a slow blink and a nod.  She returned the gesture and looped her hand through David’s arm as they left.  Part way up the pathway lightning crackled its way across the sky and thunder boomed gun-shot loud overhead.  There was a pregnant pause, a long sighing sound of rain rushing over water and sand, before the curtain closed around them and they were soaked.

Jess glanced back at the lonely man.  He occupied her spot at the railing, his hood down now and face up turned to the sky. There was beauty in the sadness displayed there, in the way he sought to connect with something bigger than himself, maybe the rain washed away that which he wished to be free of.

They hurried to the car and were silent on the drive to drop David at home. Jess packed waterproofs in her trunk before turning in for the night.  Her bed just didn’t feel right, almost like it had those first weeks without Will.  She tossed and turned fitfully late into the night.  Sleep was just beyond reach.

[charlottedabookworm]

Regarding: That Sad Idea you had a little while ago, about Nyx meeting the younger version of his dad? I think - I think it would work best if it wasn't TimeIsCruel Nyx. Not!TimeIsCruel Nyx, being *somehow* transported back to the past and meeting the younger version of his father - who is /thrilled/ to meet his future son. ("I have a son! I have a son! Hello random person, I have a son!") The magic that brought Nyx here doesn't let him do or say anything to alter the timeline (cont)

(cont) And it’s - heartbreaking and wonderful and strange all in one to meet this version of his father, one happier and lighter and /free/. And maybe Nyx can’t alter time (he’s going to get yanked back to his own time automatically eventually) - but, well, he takes advantage of it to /punch Somnus in the FACE/. (“Trust me, he deserves it.”) And just - think how heartbroken past!Ardyn must have been, when the Scourge and the Curse took him - (cont)

 (cont) He probably thought that he’d invalidated Nyx’s existence somehow; he was pretty sure he’d been rendered sterile by the Scourge/Curse etc. Except. Two thousand years later. He has a son. And he looks at Nyx and - Nyx is proof. That not everything he lost. He has a /son/. 

You, my friend, are a giant enabler. You are also right. It is so much more heartbreaking with a Nyx that didn’t know his father as he was - because it’s so much easier for him to notice the differences. When he gets back Nyx is gonna take like, a month off just to hug his dad and never let him go. Ardyn is totally fine with this, he’s spent 2000 years stressing over whetehr or not his son would be born. (Becuase he noticed how sometimes Nyx looked at him like he wanted to cry, how Nyx looked at Somnus as though he was an enemy. He didn’t think much of it at the time - because he was too focused on meeting Nyx - but after the curse, after Somnus’ betrayal? Well, lets say some things make a little more sense)

Have a snippet (hah, snippet I say, it’s over a 1000 words) from Nyx’s POV under the cut. I really want to write the next bit from Ardyns POV but I’m also meant to be packing and writing the next Our Past chapter so gods know when I’ll get round to it.

It happens while he’s on a mission, because of course it does.Nyx had been feeling out of sorts all day – nothing big, nothing even worth mentioning, but enough that he was just twitchy. Just odd enough for him to notice and for it to irritate him. Which, well, was annoying – but not world ending, even though it meant that he was looking forward to the mission and a chance to destroy things.And the mission started out well enough – it was just a standard guard and destroy mission (affectionally titled the “Hold your ground and Fuck Shit Up” missions in glaive reports – there was a reason that Drautos despaired of the lot of them) against the Nif and the Daemons that they’d brought with them. Nothing particularly difficult, nothing they hadn’t done before, nothing that would take all that long – it was a milk run, really, meant so that the younger glaives could build up some experience.Nyx was only there because he had volunteered when Drautos had asked for a couple older glaives to go to keep an eye on the kids. Because he had been desperate to get out of the city and just kill something – to try and work off all of this excess energy that he had.He had regretted that, pretty much the moment that they arrived at the site. Because Nyx had spent a lot of time fighting in ruins – it practically came in the job description and the Nifs spent a lot of time targeting populated areas. But nobody had told him that they were going to be fighting in the ruins of Old Solheim. Hells, maybe they didn’t even know. One set of ruins looked a lot like another, and they weren’t exactly anywhere near where Solheim used to be – Lucis and Niflheim probably didn’t even know what these ruins used to be.But Nyx could feel it – could feel the land reaching out to him, tasting his magic, could feel the magic of the land embracing him, recognising him. (His father was a King. Ardyn was Solheim’s King, bound to the land in a way that the Lucian kings would never understand. The land recognised him, whispered things to him, was a part of him in a way that Somnus had never known.And his father had recognised him as a Prince, had confirmed him as his heir. The land recognised that decision, accepted that decision. The land had chosen Nyx as it’s Prince, just like Ardyn had, and this was proof)Which made it really fucking hard to concentrate on the battle a hand, what with the way that his blood and magic were basically singing contentment and home and soon at him. Thankfully, the kids didn’t actually need his help – and Nyx only had to step in at the end when a couple of them had drawn the attention of a daemon that was a little too strong for them, Pelna having taken care of pretty much everything else.Fighting off a daemon with just his blades doesn’t really help him burn off any of the excess energy that’s because of his magic, but that’s probably a good thing honestly – with the way he feels right now, with the way his magic was right now, he’d probably end up blowing the entire place sky high.The battle ends pretty quickly, with no real injuries outside of some cuts and bruises caused by shrapnel, and they’re just cleaning up when it happens.Nyx, startled by a sudden change in the lands magic, stumbles – brushing a slightly bloody hand against some runes that he hadn’t bothered to translate.There’s a surge of magic - eager and joyous and excitable and powerful and old - that rushes around him, reaching for him, and Nyx barely has time to curse before the world goes white.He wakes up to a man poking him in the face, a man that his magic instinctively recognises, and his fist is flying towards the mans face without a second thought. For a moment he feels slightly guilty – really, the man had brought it on himself but he might have possibly been a bit violent – before he realises what his magic, what the land, is whispering to him (brother of the King, blood-kin, Bahamut’s blade, Somnus) and then all he feels is proud of the way that his nose had cracked, and slightly sad that he hadn’t managed to do more.And then his eyes land on the second man, who was standing slightly behind the first, and he freezes.(That’s his dad. He knows that that’s his dad – his magic had reached for him the way that it always did, and his dad’s magic had reached back. But.It was so odd to see his father without the weight of millennia on his shoulders. It was odd to see the man without the lines of betrayal on his face, without the taint of the scourge in his magic, without the air of age that always surrounded him, without the endless shadows in his eyes and the constant battle for control against the daemons housed within his body.This was the healer, the King of Solheim. This was a man who hadn’t yet taken too much of the Scourge into himself trying to heal others, who hadn’t yet been betrayed by those closest to him, who hadn’t had his people stolen from him, who hadn’t faced his own execution at the hands of his family, who hadn’t been cursed by a God that he had once followed, who hadn’t had to live for 2000 years trying to find a way to die. This was Ardyn before he was broken, this was his father as he should have been.And that broke his heart.Because this man, the man in front of him, was young. Young in a way that Nyx found hard to reconcile with his father.He was young and happy and free, and it made Nyx want to kill something and cry and break down. Because Nyx knew exactly what happened to this man, to turn him into the father that Nyx knew – Nyx knew what was in this man’s future, and he hated himself for it)“What the fuck is my luck?” He said mournfully, tipping his head briefly back to stare at the sky. Why was it always him?A noise brought his attention back to his father, who was standing half-in half-out a defence stance, obviously confused at what his magic was telling him about Nyx. Well, might as well prove that he’s his father’s son.“Hey dad, lovely weather we’re having right?”

[generallynerdy]

Fortnight (Legolas X Reader)

Summary: The King of Mirkwood isn’t pleased to discover you, a mere peasant, are the lover of his son. He is quick to send you on your way when Legolas leaves to meet with the Council of Elrond. Despite almost being too late, Legolas stops your departure.

Key: (Y/N)-your name

Today’s Playlist: I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. A lot of songs could apply, but I’m too lazy to look them up.

Cast: YOU! Legolas Greenleaf, Thranduil, Aragorn, and brief mentions of the hobbits

Warnings: Nothing, surprisingly. Fluff? If you don’t like fluff, I guess it’s a warning.

Status: Complete

Note: I’m not proud of how I portrayed Aragorn in this fic, but if I ever do another LotR fic, I’ll be sure to fix that.

“(Y/N). The king demands your presence.”

Those few words were no good. Now here you are before King Thranduil, terrified of what is to come. You knew this talk was coming. No mere commoner could earn the affections of Legolas Greenleaf without his father stepping in. You, however, are the first to even dare to try.

Legolas is your close friend and your dearest. He cares for you more than anyone ever has. An orphan holds no place in anyone’s heart. Or at least they shouldn’t, but you’ve somehow found yourself in his. You knew it would never go far, especially with the King breathing down your neck. The moment Legolas turned his back, you were doomed.

Here you stand before his father, ready for judgement. As Legolas is about to leave for the Council of Elrond, King Thranduil wishes to speak to you. The few words he speaks to you are strongly meant, as he does not joke.

“You are to leave on a ship from the Grey Havens in two fortnight’s time. No questions asked.” He glares, closer than you want him to be.

You knew this was coming. You had prepared for it for a long time. Legolas is leaving and he probably won’t come back, so what was the point staying anyway? You can’t go with him, as Thranduil won’t allow it. You could always go of your own accord, but you don’t have the supplies for that either. You would never make it past the gates.

“You are never to speak to my son again.” He comes ever closer, making his point. “You will leave a letter with his things and be gone as the time comes. Understood?”

“Yes, my King.” You mutter, knowing he can hear you well enough.

“Get out of my sight.” He hisses, almost disgusted at the idea that his son has fallen for you. He turns, his robes flaring out behind him.

You turn to leave and prepare for your journey. You have time, but you also have to say goodbye to Legolas. That will probably be the hardest part, knowing him. You can’t alert him to the fact that you’re leaving, or Thranduil will have your head.

You write a letter that very night, tucking it among your beloved’s bags with the knowledge that he won’t find it until you’ve already left. Legolas may be clever, but he is by no means organized.

The morning of his departure is the worst. He approaches you last, even after saying goodbye to his father, who is glaring daggers at you. Legolas kisses your forehead gently, cradling your head with his soft hands. He smiles lovingly. “I will be home swiftly to see you again.”

You smile tearfully. He thinks you are afraid for him. You are, but mostly for when he discovers of your departure. You kiss him lightly and hold him in your embrace.

“Do not worry for me, love.” He reassures, “I always return home.”

“I know.” You mutter quietly. He will always return to his kingdom. It is his home as well as his duty. You are not. You may have his heart, but his mind and his own self belongs to his kingdom.

He gives you one last kiss before mounting and taking off on his way. He waves goodbye farther down the road and you return the gesture, attempting a smile.

It pains you to know that he won’t realise you’re gone. At least not for a long time.

Two fortnights pass too quickly and Legolas hasn’t returned. You had the slightest hope that his journey might be complete by then, but it was a foolish one. You take your leave of the kingdom and start toward the Grey Havens, King Thranduil smirking victoriously as you depart. You curse his name and hope that his years left in Middle Earth are wrought with hardship. For all the pain he will cause his son, he will deserve it. He deserves even far more than what you have cursed upon him. Only the fury of a lost love could make him feel such pain.

Since his journey has begun, Legolas has thought of nothing but (Y/N)’s welfare. He can’t help but fear for her, as his father was not exactly pleased at the idea of a ‘commoner’ romancing his son; the Prince. Legolas couldn’t care less, though, as you are his and he is yours.

He doesn’t discover the letter until they rest in Lorien. It’s a miracle the letter hasn’t been lost by now. Little does he know that he may just be too late.

“Legolas.” Aragorn calls for him beside their bags.

Legolas raises his eyebrows and approaches his friend, who has pulled a single, loose piece of writing seemingly from out of nowhere. He hands it to Legolas.

“It is yours, my friend.” Aragorn tells him in elvish, not wanting their conversation to be heard by the other members of the Fellowship. “Have you read it?”

“No…” Legolas answers swiftly, “I wasn’t aware of its presence. Why?”

“It was written by your love, Legolas.”

The Prince’s eyes widen as he takes the paper from Aragorn. He reads over it swiftly, an expression of displeasure spread across his face. It turns from shock, to hurt, to sadness. “This cannot be true.”

“I’m sorry.” Aragorn mutters, “She has left for the Grey Havens.”

    My Legolas,

    I fear by the time you might find this, it has already been too late. I do not expect you to return within two fortnight’s time, as your journey is far more dangerous and time consuming than one might imagine. Amusing, isn’t it, how one little ring causes so much distress?

    I’m sorry I have to write this to you by letter, but if I had told you, I would not be alive to this day. Your father, King Thranduil, has demanded I leave Middle Earth and cross the sea in two fortnights. If you have not returned by then, there will be none here to stop me from leaving. I cannot stay, as he will have my head, but I cannot leave, as the same result may occur. I’m deeply sorry, Legolas. I wish more than anything I could have followed you, but if I had, there was a chance that neither of us would survive.

    Do not feel guilty. I made this decision myself so that you may be free to serve your kingdom as you were meant. Do not grieve, love, at my departure. Someday you may follow me and we might meet again. Do not allow this loss to distract from your true goal; the destruction of the Ring. And do not allow my disappearance to keep you from your duties as a Prince.

    I love you with all my heart, Legolas, and I hope from the bottom of it that you might see fit to move on as you were meant. Rule your people with a just hand and wise mind, as I know you can.

    All my love,

    (Y/N)

“I have to go.” Legolas begins to pack his things onto a horse. The hobbits watch in fear. What is so desperate that their comrade must leave in the middle of the journey?

“Legolas, you will not make it in time to stop her.” Aragorn warns, standing beside his friend. He reaches out a swift arm to stop Legolas. “She will have left the day before yesterday. The Grey Havens is a fortnight’s ride from here, if not more, and you are two days behind.”

Legolas frowns. “Then let me go, Aragorn, and I might catch up with them.”

“Our Fellowship will have one less member.” Aragorn continues, “We need you.”

“And I need her. I will not allow her to leave, at least not without a goodbye.” Legolas finishes his argument and continues to load his things.

Aragorn sighs as his friend mounts his horse, prepared to leave. He looks up at Legolas in one last goodbye, “Godspeed.”

Legolas gives him a curt nod before clicking his tongue. His steed takes off at immense speed as they ride through the forests of Lorien.

He rides day and night, determined to catch up with her. He cannot let her go. He loves her too dearly to forget her like that, in the blink of an eye. His fear grows as time slips from him. But so does his anger at his father. He’s been betrayed by his own kin, his own flesh and blood. Could he not see that Legolas adores her as he once adored his own beloved?

You take one last look around you with a sigh. The view isn’t what you’re going to miss the most, though. You shake the thought of him away. You’ve already come to terms with it. There’s no point drowning yourself in sorrows again.

You begin to board the ship, as you are the last passenger. However, a thundering of hooves and a shout stops you. “Wait!”

You turn, your heart filled with sudden hope. You know that voice. You gape a little as he rides toward you, determined to stop you. How is he here right now? He was in the middle of a quest! “Legolas?”

He dismounts and races over to you, not wasting a moment. He takes you in his embrace, holding you close, as if to say that he’ll never let you go. “Don’t go.”

You chuckle tearfully and hug him tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s my fault. If I had told Father-” He starts, the guilt building up. It was his father who cast you out, who almost had you leave Middle Earth altogether just because he didn’t want to see you with his son.

“Legolas.” You hold your hand to the side of his head gently. “Neither of us are to blame.”

He leans forward to kiss you, mumbling, “I will never let you go again, (Y/N). I love you.”

“And I you, my Legolas.”

[paperbackcat]

Don’t fear the Reaper (Nygmobblepot)

From a writing prompt: After witnessing a death, the protagonist falls in love with the Grim Reaper.  | Read on ao3

Word count: 5,109 words

Pairings: Edward/Oswald 

Death comes to us sooner or later, so it only adds to your pain to fear it.

Edward knows it’s implausible.

He knows; humans rely on a tried-and-true method to make sense of dying and mortality – and in place, they give death a form they recognize, turning something abstract into something real and tangible. It’s all in their heads, the stories they conjured and the depictions of that invisible phenomenon called death.

The Greeks called him Thanatos, the god of death. Norse mythology described them as beautiful women, reminiscent of angels, called Valkyries. During the Middle Ages, the concept of the Angel of death embodied Death as a skeletal figure, something menacing, a sombre symbol of the inevitability of death.

Not surprising, Edward scoffs, considering the medieval-era plague that caused millions to die in outbreaks known as the black death. The Grim Reaper was then born from these post-plague visions, as a mascot of death. Artworks that hung upon the walls of museums watched the hooded figure playing off the deepest fears of the unknown.

It’s merely manifestation of the imagination to make sense impending mortality.

At least that’s what Edward tries to tell himself, after all, he’s a man of logic.

Therefore, logically, he can’t have seen the Grim Reaper.

Granted, he’s seen dead bodies, he’s a bloody forensics pathologist; but he’s never really seen anyone die in front of his eyes.

So, when Edward watched his father in bed, deep in ten shades of agony slowly ebbing away right in front of his eyes, he had never expected literal death to grace him with his presence. His imagination, Edward ultimately decides, was oddly not like how he expected the Grim Reaper to look like. No scythe. No hood. No skeletal figure.  Instead, it, was dressed in a rather expensive looking suit and armed with what looked like an umbrella. It paid little attention to the inquisitive gaze of Edward, instead tapping his father’s shoulder lightly, movements astute, as if it were routine.

There was a ringing sound bouncing off the white walls of the hospital room as the heartbeat monitor stopped dead, the peculiarly long resounding bleep like an alarm going off in Edward’s ears.

Nurses entered the room without slowing their stride, one grabbing his father’s hand to take a pulse and another hurriedly checking the heartbeat monitor. The doctor walked in, seconds later, his face like a brick, movements sharp and with purpose – rapidly swooping up and down his father’s bedside, barking up orders but Edward knew it was too late, he was sure of it, his father was dead.

Instead of acknowledging the murmurs from the nurses that offered their apologies, Edward nodded nonchalantly, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure slowly exiting the room. It was odd, for during this exchange, none made eye contact or spoke to the opulently dressed feature in the room.

It was then Edward realized, quite in disbelief, that he had seen the Grim Reaper.

Edward’s day begins when someone dies.

It sounds positively morbid, but he’s mostly used to it.

As a forensic pathologist, he’s seen many things, worked with many cadavers. He’s not one to be bothered. In fact, he’s more intrigued than mortified. The whole shebang is a riddle to him, something he’s awfully good at: after all, he’s been able to solve a large quantity of unusual deaths: exsanguination caused by a stab wound or ligature strangulation – he’s uncovered it all.

The conundrums he has faced, nothing but a human scale puzzle piece to solve and he’s done it. Nothing is unexplainable.

Edward has done his morning routine report review from the deputy coroner’s investigators: poor old Mrs. Taggert found dead in her house hold sometime during the previous twenty-four hours. Mrs Taggert’s face was awfully discoloured when they found her in her bathroom, but she seemed strangely cleaned up as if she had been scrubbed off any evidence before the police had arrived.

Still, her husband had insisted that she succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest after her bath and was questionably quick to abandon the idea of homicide.

Dubiously hasty at that.

So, as per normal, Edward’s left to figure it out.

The cold autopsy room reminds him faintly of it.

It’s been a week since Edward’s father died and he had taken that week off to let his life slowly falls back into place. Appreciatively, he had not caught a glimpse or the silhouette of the dark figure ever since, and silently elected to regard that night as something of his mind's eye. After all, it’s trivial to pursue something so illogical, right? It’s his imagination.

So, it’s a rude shock when Edward finds himself staring at the stainless-steel counter top and sees a pair of pale blue eyes staring back.

Against his logic, Edward clears his throat awkwardly.

“Excuse my manners; but this room is reserved for examining homicides and decomposed bodies, you are not supposed to be in here.”

He pauses for a moment or two, before directing his gaze towards the thing behind him.

It’s got a pair of befuddled blue orbs that unexpectedly accentuates that purple brocade tie on its neatly donned suit. Edward scoffs internally. Barely resembles anything menacing. It doesn’t reply Edward, instead gracing the pathologist a twitch of the brow.

Unsure whether to feel offended that his figment of imagination wasn’t offering any sort of conversation, Edward surmises to continue his examination, fixing his attention onto the rubbery-looking corpse on his autopsy table.

Heart attacks, Edward mutters under his breath, is the death of a segment of heart muscle caused by the loss of bloody supply.

He tucks his gloved hands underneath Mrs Taggert’s cold body, lifting her elbow up and examining bits and pieces, like a puzzle piece. Pensively, Edward recalls that the report states that poor old Mrs. Taggert had suffered from a heart disease, but nothing too severe.

Picking up a scalpel, he began cutting into flesh.

At the corner of his eye, he can see it silently watching. What is it waiting for?

He decides to ignore it. There’s no point trying to emit a response.

Normally, Edward concludes, as he carefully dissects the lady’s inside, if death is caused by a heart attack, the vessel of the heart will have a thick viscous substance that looks awfully like yellow nasal discharge forming a blockage in one or more of the cardiac arteries. Observing the strawberry-jam looking clots, it’s apparent that Mrs Taggert did die from a sudden cardiac arrest.

So, was her husband, right? Edward frowns, shaking his head. It’s not that unassuming. Maybe her husband was the trigger? An argument of some sort?

A verbal altercation has physiological consequence even without physical contact. Edward pokes around her neck, emotional stress provoked by criminal activity of another person could cause this homicide by heart attack.  For some reason, it just didn’t fit, Edward taps his fingers on the stainless-steel table, deep in thought.

If so, the implications of death in such a circumstance is different to that of a physical assault, since it’s not necessarily illegal to argue with someone.

There is a rugged sniffle from the corner of the room.

Edward glowers at nothing in particular. The thing in the room transpires to be tremendously unnerving, so much so he wants so badly to pull at his hair.

Wait.

Speedily but cautiously, Edward lifts Mrs. Taggert’s head up and runs a hand down her scalp, grinning when he feels a tough bump at her head. Judging from the size of the bump, Edward identifies that there’s a high probability that the old lady’s head had collided with something hard – perhaps the wall, or most likely – he measures the size of the bump – a fist.

The presumed mechanism of death in the case was a cardiac dysrhythmia, related to underlying heart disease, but initiated by physical stress.

Edward realises he has said it out loud because there’s a soft clapping noise from behind. He twists around in time to see the figure walk casually over to Mrs. Taggert’s body, leaning across the stationary corpse and tapping her shoulder with his hand.

There’s a gentle sigh that echoes around the room and Edward swears he hears the voice of the old lady thanking him.

After Edward assures himself that he’s not obviously high from smelling the formalin, he turns to his left to inspect the strange humanoid creature, who seems unruffled by the fact that Edward can see him.

“Um.” Edward begins, silently wondering if he’s gone off his rocket. “Uh.” His throat is dry.

He’s not usually this incompetent at speaking.

“You beat me every day, yet I always win. I am first and last, and come for your kin. Before you came many, after comes more. You always leave when at my door.”

He splutters incoherently.

“Who am I?”

“Is that a riddle?” The thing actually speaks, strangled and mocking.

Edward manages to nod.

“Hilarious.” It looks far from amused. “Death.” It whispers, in throaty hum.

Edward gulps.

“As such,” It continues, drawling, “There’s usually death when humans do see me.”

“Guess I’m lucky.” He manages to stammer.

“Oh I doubt that.” And with that it disappears, leaving Edward to gawk, horrified at the empty space where it once stood.

About once or twice a month, Edward gets called to go out to a death scene to work with the police investigators in understanding what happened to the decedent, in determining whether the case could be classified as a homicide.

Today, Edward faces a victim found lying tattered in gritty muck. Ivory skin splattered and face half submerged in mud. He bends down to take a closer look at the body, wincing slightly in annoyance at the flashes of camera lights. It’s apparent that the victim had been psychically assaulted, a deep puncture to his neck.

The puncture is oddly square. Not done in by a knife, he infers. Possibly a thick cane or baton  of some sort.

He steps back and immediately freezes.

From the glare of the flashing lights, he spots it once more.

Just like Edward a few moments ago, it’s bent forward, eyeing the body with a bizarre sort of enthusiasm.

“What are you doing?” He hisses before comprehending the fact that no one else can see it. A few odd looks were thrown his way and Edward hurries to find something else to do instead.

Hurriedly, he scouts the rest of the street alley.

“What are you doing?” The same surly voice he’s heard just a few days ago hovers at his side.

Edward visibly shudders before glancing furtively about, making sure that no one is directly in earshot before glaring hotly at the Grim Reaper (he’s decided to call it grim reaper, it’s easier that way, he’s not getting attached to it, not at all).

“Looking for something.” Edward mutters with clenched teeth. And after a moment of hesitation, “Aren’t you going to send his departed soul off or something and be on your merry way?”

The Grim Reaper blinks owlishly and merely shrugs.

He clicks his teeth, irritated. He doesn’t know why it’s presence feels contemptuous, as if it was here to mock his ineptitude.

Edward stops when he notices a small lump near the rubbish bin. He barely makes out what seemed to be a burgundy coloured shoe plastered in drying mud, the rubicund shade hardly noticeable in the muck. A short way off lay its pair, scarcely seen underneath the bin with its heel broken off.

A dawn of realisation hits him.

“The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?” He utters under his breath.

Swiftly, he goes back to the motionless victim’s body and inspects the ground beneath it. The body had been left out in the sun for a couple of hours, and he appreciates the fact that the ground underneath had dried, holding the shape of an imprint. To his delight, a shoe impression laid nearby and he let out a quiet hurray under his breath.

“Footprints.” The Grim Reaper ripostes, languidly at his side. “You seem to like your riddles.”

Edward snorts in agreement.

He deduces immediately that it belonged to the same buried high heeled shoes. 

The puncture on the neck was done in by a heel!

Edward beams to himself and explains his rationale to the sergeant, who appraises him for his keen eye. He mentions something about a witness that saw a woman from the bar leave the alley without any shoes and Edward knows they are close to solving the case.

He’s about to head off to the forensics team to get them to pick up the evidence when he spots the Grim Reaper once more, bent over the victim’s body and its hand tapping gently upon the shoulder of the corpse. Even with the buzz of police officers interrogating witnesses, he can hear the sigh that escapes the victim soul, gratified and sated.

The Grim Reaper stands back upright and twists around to shoot a momentary gaze at Edward, before nodding in acknowledgment and dematerializing out of existence.

Edward, for the life of him, cannot decipher what’s going on anymore.

Edward sees it again, a few times this week.

It’s become this peculiar routine: it appears whenever he’s performing his autopsies, drops an occasional mordant remark, taps the shoulders of the deceased, who sighs, and it disappears.

It’s even more bizarre that Edward’s growing more accustomed to it.

They don’t talk much, save for the few scathing observations that it gives whenever Edward dissects his cadavers, or whenever he tries to start up a tête-à-tête with it. It’s preposterous to be talking with the Grim Reaper, and Edward has never once thought that he would be doing so – but here he is, exchanging occasional stares with this far-fetched idea.

Today, it lounges casually at the side of the autopsy table, side eyeing the petite sized corpse.

“Sad, isn’t it,” It intones, not sounding upset at all, “How a child should be on this table?”

Edward nods gravely.

“I had the impression that Grim Reapers do not feel sad.” He bounces a reply playfully.

It shrugs as a retort.

“And I had the impression that humans experience distress whenever they see me.” It hums after a moment.

Edward nods once more.

They lapse into comfortable silence before it taps the child’s shoulder and leaves.

“So, is there like a rule to sending off departed souls? Because I’ve been noticing a pattern.” Edward scrunches up his nose at the ruptured lung of his current corpse.

The Grim Reaper snorts.

It’s a pleasant sound, Edward thinks.

“Enlighten me.” It drones haughtily.

“Well,” Edward picks up the bullet lodged deep in muscle tissue with forceps, examining for a brief moment before placing it into a stainless-steel container. “You seem to take them away only after I’ve figured out how they died.”

It let out a hollow chortle.

“Astute, but unfortunately, wrong.” It watches Edward an unreadable expression on its face.

But it doesn’t provide anything else after that.

The next time they meet, Edward is trimming extra tissue off a large rotund cadaver, the excess tissue interfering with his procedure.

“Strangulation.” He asserts, matter of factly, pointing at the dark bruises on the victim’s throat. “His bones have been crushed, causing the discoloration at his throat.”

It nods in assessment.

“Aren’t you going to take his soul away?” Edward pipes up after a while. “We’ve figured out the cause of death.”

The Grim Reaper shoots him a scowl but does so anyway.

Before it leaves, it answers Edward’s burning question.

“I can take them anytime, but I always find it better to lead them away when they’ve come to terms with why they’ve died.”

He shudders.

It’s been a while since Edward last felt unnerved.

“The hammer is used with the chisel to separate the calvarium.” Edward explains slowly, gently extricating the upper part of the cranium from the lower part of the skull. “When you are finished locking it in place,” He uses the hook attached to the hammer, “This hook helps you pull the calvarium away, creating a skull cap.”

The Grim Reaper doesn’t usually bother with Edward’s ramblings but today it looks markedly invested.

It only takes Edward a moment to realise why.

“Eddie,” A concerned query enters the room. “Are you alright?”

Edward almost drops all his tools in horror.

“Miss K-Katherine!” He gasps in surprise, usually the forensics officers stayed away from the autopsy rooms which meant - the sudden intrusion conspires something ill-fated. “Yes, yes I am fine.” Edward pushes his glasses up nervously, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Eddie.” The forensic officer’s voice is tense, “You’ve been talking to yourself.” That’s not a question. “Are you sure you are alright?” That’s a question.

Edward shakes his head.

The Grim Reaper stares pointedly at him.

Realising his mistake, he nods eagerly instead before shaking once more, trying to dispose of the disquiet.

Katherine sighs.

“Look Eddie, I know it’s been a rough few weeks for you, especially after your father’s untimely demise.” She looks genuinely worried, “Do you need to see a psychiatrist? Talk to someone, maybe?”

Edward shakes his head sternly.

“No, no, no.” He waves his hands, “I’m just going through the motions. I swear I’m fine.” He lets out a choked laugh to try to ease the tension in the room but fails to make it sound anything but distress.

Katherine isn’t convinced but she lets it go, and departs with a small smile of reassurance.

Edward wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever.

The Grim Reaper, thankfully, does not offer any sardonic quip after that.

Edward’s a little more cautious after that.

He locks the doors, makes sure that no one is around the corner and speaks diminutively softer.

“They think I’ve gone mental.” He mutters, glaring accusingly at the dead body in front of him. “Maybe I have gone mental.”

The figure flitting at the corner of the room lets out a mischievous guffaw.

“Maybe you have.” The Grim Reaper muses. “That’s a logical explanation to why you can see me.”

Edward laughs, maybe a little bit too loudly but he doesn’t care.

“Rationality be damned. I rather speak to you than any of them.” He scoffs.

It looks slightly puzzled now.

“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” It enquires.

“I don’t think so.” Edward admits after a moment’s pause.

He glances at the wide set eyes inspecting him meticulously.

“But I think I don’t care.”

There’s that comfortable silence that they lapse back into, Edward working on his report and the Grim Reaper watching, until he finally breaks the stillness.

“What costs nothing, but is worth everything. Weighs nothing but can last a lifetime, that one person can’t own, but two or more can share?” His voice trembles ever so slightly.

The Grim Reaper’s brows are raised.

“Love.” It offers, nonchalant.

Edward lets out a nervous giggle.

“Friendship.” He mutters, half amused. “I think,” Edward rests his gaze on it, a little bit too longingly, “I think – I hope we’re friends.”

Edward realizes he looks forward to work more and more, only because he gets to see the Grim Reaper.

He spends most of the days performing autopsies, even snagging someone else’s work so he can spend time with the ridiculously well-dressed concept of Death. It’s irrational, he knows, but he feels strangely comfortable with it around, even though they don’t talk much.

He knows he lost interest in the bodies piled up from crime scenes, that spark of curious and intent to solve the riddle slowly ebbing away. Instead, he’s more fascinated with the humanoid-like figure, constantly drawing questions and moving around like the enigma it is.

He’s concluded that it’s found his company as enjoyable as he did.

Their routine, however, comes to a halting stop when Edward’s forced to take a month’s leave off work. Everyone’s saying how concerned they are about his health but he’s sure that they’re more alarmed by his relentless mumbling.

“Get some rest please, Edward.” The commissioner tells him. “You look like you’ve seen death.”

Edward lets out a forlorn snuffle, unsure whether to laugh at the irony of it all. 

It’s the first week of his ‘break’ and he’s found himself slowly deteriorating into a spiral of isolation. He’s found himself often shuffling around his cluttered apartment, bumping onto the mythology books strewn around the living room. Every day draws out so long and thin that he’s surprised when the sun finally sets.

The bond he had shared with the Grim Reaper had been like a bridge out of his fortressed mind, allowing him to step foot outside it’s protective compound, exploring the sun-warmed grass on the other side. Now, severed from the bridge, he felt terribly alone.

He tried calling out for it, but to no avail.

But there’s something else he can try.

It appears, ethereal yet almost tangible to feel. It’s pale paper looking skin and noticeably bright blue eyes a respite from the skinny man he’s been looking at from his mirror. The Grim Reaper looks no different from before, it’s jet hair styled and messily plastered on his head, dressed in a suit adorned with an amethyst-coloured neck wear.

At first it looks mystified, then it shakes its head in amusement.

“Very well, Ed.” It chortles, and Edward tingles at the way it murmurs his name.

“How did she die?”

On the third day, it finally asks the question.

“Where are you getting these bodies?” It looks impassive, lounging on Edward’s large armchair.

Edward blanches slightly, going rosy in embarrassment.

“I’ve been stealing them from morgues.” He confesses, stumbling a little as he shows off the dead corpse on his living room table.  “Head trauma,” he speaks casually as if it they were chatting about something like the weather, “Blunt force with a sledgehammer. He bled out rather quickly.”

The Grim Reaper nods, stands up and taps the body.

It doesn’t leave this time, instead, it stays and watches Edward clean up the mess. They exchange a few words, Edward passing a snide remark about how it’s dressed, before it finally dematerializes into the dark.

Peculiar. He thinks. It’s like it’s waiting for something.

His co-workers almost caught him off-guard a week ago.

Edward was doing his daily inspecting of an immobile corpse when there’s a rap on his door. He’s not used to visitors generally, so when he realised that – of all people – his colleagues from the forensics department opted to drop by for a visit, he panicked.

Flustered, he threw the cadaver underneath his bed, hurriedly wiping the stains off his living room table whilst gasping “Give me a moment, I’m not decent!”

He was taken by surprise when they came in bringing in small baskets of gifts, from wine bottles to cupcakes. They weren’t usually this pleasant to him, he noted mutely as they gathered in his living room, awkwardly telling him about how business was going as usual. Face blotchy, he had insistently declined a house tour when one of the officers had suggested that to clear up the uneasy atmosphere.

Edward found himself inept and tongue-tied, unable to wield a conversation with anyone, even as grateful as he felt towards them. It was strange, out of his depth – but it was probably because they felt some sort of worry for him, he guessed, for Katherine had even passed him a name card for a psychiatrist whilst he sat on his sofa, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

He noticed that the Grim Reaper had disappeared and couldn’t help but feel terribly abandoned.

This isn’t that awful, he tried to convince himself.

He managed a throaty gurgle when someone mentioned how his house smelt like the dead and lied through his teeth as he pretended to wholeheartedly agree.

“I need to go out more often.” He offered, smiling with teeth clenched.

They laughed, one of them telling him to be wary about walking alone by himself since there were a few recent reports of kidnapping and murder, bringing Edward up to date on a few killings that happened.

He was sure he only started to breath when they all left his house, wishing him a speedy recovery (whatever that meant) and telling him to cheer up.

He fibbed about hoping for the best.

What he hoped for, was that they didn’t see the leftover blood stains on the rug.

Edward knows what he’s doing isn’t right.

He faced the mirror this Tuesday morning and the blood-shot eyes that fixated him back with a stare was no longer the same man named Edward. Bleary eyed and unshaven, he had looked like a zombie, gaunt and pallid. He watched himself walk around the house daily, almost soulless, exhausted from dragging dead bodies up to his apartment. The only good thing that comes out of that is the Grim Reaper.

He’s infatuated with the idea of Death.

“There’s something strange,” Edward mentions that very evening, “That I’ve realised.”

The Grim Reaper is watching Edward with bright blue pools, and tilts its head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy.

“Back in the autopsy room, or outside during our investigations with the bodies,” He taps his chin thoughtfully, “They sigh every time you tap their shoulder. Why?”

It shrugs.

“Is it because they’ve come to terms with their death? Why they died and how they died?” Edward continues, hoping to get an answer.

He does.

It nods ever so slightly before gazing expectantly at him.

“My father did not sigh.” Edward states briskly. “Was he not gratified?”

The Grim Reaper lets out a loud scoff that reverberates through Edward’s small living room space, and for the first time, cracks a sickeningly anomalous smile. It takes its place next to him, hands resting on its cheek with a mischievous twinkle in its eyes.

Edward shivers at how close it is to him.

“Oh Ed.” It purrs. “I think you know the answer.”

The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain.

Edward watches the white bodywork of the police cars zip past his window, it’s yellow-white headlights spotlighting the dense dark streets of the town. Behind him, the television blares deafeningly, a report on 19 missing people, each with absolutely no connection to the next – no one knows what happened or who did it and the cops are on constant vigilance.

The report states that there’s no factual motive or connection behind the missing people, but Edward knows better.

After all, during all 19 days of his break, the bodies on the living room table don’t sigh anymore.

Your father’s autopsy shows an over dosage of potassium chloride, which can stop a person’s heart. Katherine is saying over the phone, worried. Did you know?

Edward does not reply.

Eddie. Katherine’s voice is shaky. Your father was murdered.

He remembers slamming the phone and leaving his house in a hurry.

Edward knows his affair with Death is about to expire.

He’s standing in the middle of the rows of tombstones, standing erect in silence, like a sea of the dead. Some crumbled with the weathering of centuries, overgrown and unkempt. His father’s was of smooth marble, inked with black writing and laid with floral tributes.

The cops are at his place now, possibly finding evidence of the brutal murders of the 19 unfortunate people that he had crossed pathways with. It was necessary, Edward tells himself. He made sure it was quick and painless, and that they were never tortured.

There’s a blaring sound of the police siren far off in the city.

Sooner or later, they will find him.  

Dead or alive, Edward doesn’t know.

Either way, he does not care.

He waits.

And sure enough, it appears.

“I stabbed him in the gut and watched him bleed out.” Edward admits, nudging the still body beside him, unconcerned. So I could see you. He wants to add but stops himself eventually, feeling bone weary; he knows when he’s defeated.

The Grim Reaper, for once, looks mildly troubled.

“Ed.” It’s voice is cold and calculating. “I know.”

Edward blinks, taken aback.

“You knew?”

It shrugs.

“Why follow me around then?” Edward is confused now, wiping his bloodied knife down his trousers. “I thought the reason you shadowed me was because I figured out how these,” He motions helplessly at the dead body on the floor, “People died. So, it’s easier for you to help their souls depart.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“Indeed.” It taps its black umbrella on the soil. “But I never said it was for them.”

Edward frowns, perturbed.

“So, you were following me around.” He begins sluggishly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting in his head. “For me?”

It nods grandly, not offering an answer.

He knows because it wants an answer from him.

“Because,” Edward continues, an unpleasant impending sense of dread creeping up his throat, “Because like the bodies in the autopsy room, the victims out on the streets,” He takes a deep breath.

“I need to comprehend why I am going to die.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“I killed all those people so I could see you.” Edward states flatly, it sounds awfully asinine so he laughs, neck reddening in embarrassment.

“I’m going to die because of you.”

The Grim Reaper laughs alongside him.

“No, Ed.” It murmurs fondly, “As sweet as that is, it’s not the answer to this riddle.”

It tilts its head.

“Try again.”

It looks bemused as the sirens howled through the evening sky, coming closer.

Edward knows his time is running out.

“We are back where we started, Ed.” It drones, pointing at his father’s head stone.

And it hits Edward like a deer in headlights.

“Oh.” He blurts out. “Oh.”

So that’s why he can see it.

He’s been marked for death ever his father died. By his own hands.

“How am I going to die?” Edward utters after a moment’s pause.

He cannot believe his eyes when it reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, and he gasps - it feels tangible.

He can feel the gaze of death on him, the shouts of the police now audible behind, telling him to stand his ground and to not move - it feels unreal.

“A certain crime is punishable if attempted, not punishable if committed. What is it?” Edward’s voice is hollow and he thinks his eyes are watering.

“Oh Ed.” It purrs, tapping his shoulder lightly, a gentle tender stroke. 

[kwa-mii]

Le Chat Noir

SInce exams are over it’s time for me to write again! yaaay!! I missed this!!!

Since it’s Marichat May I decided to Get In On The Action and so here’s a fic for day 19 - identity reveal - which I’ve been planning for ages and it was pretty fun to write tbh

The title is a lazy reference to Le Chat Noir in Montmarte, which was one of the first cabarets. Titles are not my strong point, but eyyyyyyyy it’s doubly relevant

Also feel free to pop to my ao3

Le Chat Noir - a reveal fic with a bit of humour amidst the fluff (1959 words)

Chat was a self-proclaimed charmer. Self-proclaimed, because he considered his pun-based flirting to be the epitome of seduction and would often brag about his 'way with women'. Charmer, because it was somewhat true.

Marinette, weird as it was to admit it to herself, had been slowly falling under his spell. Yes, she'd always liked her teammate - he was reliable, good company, kind to her - but she'd never allowed herself to transgress that boundary. It would make their partnership weird after all, and Ladybug wasn't ready to make mistakes because of some silly crush. But as Marinette that had changed slightly.

When he was around her civilian self, Chat lowered some of his walls. Lolling on her bed and enthusing about his favourite anime, playing videogames, salivating over freshly-baked pastries, he seemed less untouchable hero, and more human - and an undeniably cute one at that. Without an akuma to distract her, she could really admire his tousled golden hair, his bright green eyes, the gorgeously toned body beneath the suit. (Stop it Marinette! Don't think about that! That was a violation of their sacred comradeship! He was Chat, and she was Ladybug and)

Chat really wasn't making it easier on her. His effusive, natural flirtatiousness, concentrated like that on her, was an indomitable force. Every time he sprung onto her balcony with some freshly plucked roses, or bought another small plushie to fill her bed, or, damnit, hit her with that confident, toothy smile, she could feel that partnership-relationship boundary becoming less clear. And sometimes, when they cuddled in bed and watched movies together, she couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to kiss him, to entwine their bodies more deeply. His heat was enticing and his arms were strong - but Marinette was strong too, and unerringly loyal to the thought of Adrien.

So, in the end, it didn't matter. She could not afford to fall in love with Chat. She could not afford to admit that parts of her, great and persuasive parts, wanted to.

Even so, as Chat sprung into her room that evening, she couldn't stop her heart's flutter. Light in step, and light in voice, he bounced over to her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Though many people in France did this in greeting, Chat made it feel more... charming, she supposed, amorous. Then, pulling away, he beamed at her, "Did you miss me?"

She gestured towards her homework, "Oh, desperately. Has my knight come to rescue me?"

Marinette was not naturally flirty, at all, but there was something about Chat (there were a lot of things about Chat, it seemed) that was different. She felt a bit nauseous every single time she batted her eyelids, but it was definitely fun.

He leaned over her to look - his smell so cosy, like home - and smiled, "Oh, it's science. I could help you with that."

"That's not the kind of rescuing I was thinking about."

"I can't condone slacking, Marinette."

"Bummer," she muttered, turning back to her work, her pencil tapping aimlessly against the edge of the desk.

"However," he purred, spinning her chair back to face him, "It's bad manners to ignore a guest."

"Are they a guest if they climb in through your windows? I'd call that an 'intruder'."

"Semantics."

There was a pause here. With Chat leaning over her, his hands placed either side of the chair's back, Marinette felt herself beginning to blush. She wrested herself away, getting up abruptly, and turning on the radio, "Well, you have a point. You can help me later, I guess, if you still want to. I need a break."

He grinned, "Alright! What's the plan?"

"Uh, I assumed you had one, considering you were so eager..."

"It's all a front, princess. I just wanted to get you away from that desk; you looked half-dead."

Princess again. She'd heard it a few times now, but the pet name still got to her, in its delightful intimacy. It made her warm and fuzzy, knowing he thought of her like that - or, at least, pretending to. She wasn't sure how she felt about his just saying it for the sake of it... somehow, it was important to her that he meant it, at least partly.

Wishing to shut out these traitorous thoughts, she turned the knob on the radio louder. Chat's eyes widened, "Oh, I love this song!"

Marinette's eyes widened too. Somehow, despite their shared evenings together, she had never pictured him liking music like this - sweet, cutesy, romantic. She loved it too, but, "I would've thought your taste would've been way different. Stromae, or something."

"Oh, I like him too, I listen to pretty much everything. But I have a special place in my heart for romance."

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that when saying such things. Especially when he was starting to move in time to the music, swaying and tapping his feet. Chat was beginning to transcend cute and had become irresistibly so, mouthing the words to the love song at her with an earnest expression: ‘I always liked to seduce but it's OK if you're the only one who likes me.’

She could laugh. She could swoon. She could kiss him!

At least, until he started actually singing. Maybe it didn't help that the singer was at a range well above his own, but it was clear that Chat had not been made to sing. Instead, he yowled, like the cliché of a cat, every note landing far from its mark. His voice strained at the edges. He was a mess. She could laugh, and so she did, unable to keep the giggles in at his genuine attempt to serenade her.

It seemed even Chat had flaws. Just like that, it had become a little easier not to fall in love with him. As long as he kept serenading her, she was safe; they could be Just Friends.

In the end, Marinette did not finish her science homework. She had spent the evening messing around with Chat, singing karaoke, and dancing goofily until they were flush and breathless, in a heap across Marinette's bed. Her mum had come in to ask about the noise, but she had managed to hide him beneath a blanket just in time - she wasn't ready to answer those questions just yet.

Luckily, the homework became unimportant, overshadowed by the news that their year would be putting on a musical. Every year put on a show around this time, but the fact that it was going to be a musical was especially exciting.

Nathaniel wished to do nothing more than make the sets - "I couldn't... I'd rather not be on stage" - and Marinette, though she wasn't a terrible singer, would rather be in charge of the costumes. However, there were certainly many others who wanted to act.

Alya was enthusiastic, "I wonder what it'll be! I love West Side Story, or maybe it's Phantom? Les Mis, perhaps. There are so many good musicals out there - ooh, what about Wicked? No, no, Grease is a classic."

Nino was interested, "I don't know how good I am at singing, but I'd like to do something, y'know. Music is my jam, so this should be cool. I'm pumped."

Chloe was confident, "Oh, I'll have to get the leading part. Daddy says I sing like an angel, and besides, I was born to be centre stage. None of you losers had better audition for the main part. It'll be me and Adrien up there together, right, Adri-kins?"

Adrien did not look particularly taken with the idea. However, there was no two ways about it - his looks and his natural stage presence meant he was the ideal lead. He had proven his talent in their class film, and there was no other boy quite as handsome or as charming as him. As romantic interests go, he was the perfect match. Besides, "I'm not a bad singer," he shrugged.

Alya nudged her neighbour, "Yes, but Adrien's probably just being humble. When he says 'not bad', he probably means 'amazing'. I wouldn't put it past him. Kid is perfect."

Marinette nodded, leaning forwards in her seat as Adrien stepped up to sing for them. She could imagine he was singing just for her, if she just pretended there was no one else in the room. Adrien, with his eyes like emeralds, and his hair like spun sunbeams, and his voice like -

Like nails scraping on a chalkboard? Like the clatter of old machinery? Like a primordial screech?

She winced. She noticed everyone in the class, from the corner of her eye, had been similarly affected. Faces paling, mouths dropping, Chloe on the verge of tears. No one had expected this. That perfect, beautiful Adrien, with his perfect, beautiful soul, should have such an ugly voice when he sang. A voice like -

A voice like Chat?

Her small wince turned into a minor coughing fit as she spluttered on the thought. That was ridiculous. Chat couldn't be Adrien. Chat was dangerous, Adrien was gentle... but had Chat not shown his gentleness to Marinette? Ok, ok, so they shared a characteristic or two. And ok, so they were both blonde, green eyes, beautiful body - as his partner, Marinette knew Chat's body well, as his covetous fan, she had studied Adrien's, and admittedly they bore remarkable similarities - but those were superficial traits. And, like, fine, they both had an abysmal singing voice, like a crying cat, but what did that mean? Nothing.

Except face it, Marinette. The chances of two people in Paris singing that badly was infinitissimally small. That was a god-given voice, a rarity. Forced with this truth, reminded of others, she had to accept the possibility that Adrien was the boy under the suit.

She relaxed now. Watched him. Despite the assault on her eardrums, it was actually quite cute. He didn't seem to realise, sang with abandon, with his whole body flung into song. He always had been eager.

Perhaps now she could afford to fall in love. With the both of them, with each part of the wonderful whole. She didn't need to forsake Adrien for Chat, she didn't need to hold Adrien on a distant pedestal when she knew and loved him in different skin. But, there was still the chance... she needed to check her theory.

Adrien came to the end of his song, and saw that the class were staring at him without a word. Not a single reaction, not a single sound. Slightly fazed, he went back to his seat. He whispered over to his friends, "How was that?"

Only Marinette had the wits about her to reply, "It was an interesting experience."

"Interesting doesn't always mean good," he said self-consciously.

"Semantics."

He didn't catch the hint, looking still a bit awkward. Obviously she had to be more blatant, to check if her idea was right, "You know, even though there were a few technical faults, you looked like a perfect knight up there."

He jerked to attention, looking her in the eye, seeing some meaning hidden there, "You think so?"

She nodded, "I can imagine you climbing in through the window to rescue someone."

Alya looked baffled at her friend's new bravery. Adrien looked coy, "Ah, damn, there goes my secret."

So it was true! "I have one or two of my own I think I could trade for that," she smiled. It was only fair after all, he should know the face of his partner. Friends across both identities - and perhaps, with more brewing beneath - she could only see that their teamwork would improve now. He'd all but confirmed it. Adrien was Chat Noir and there was no more perfect person it could be.

But meanwhile, "Hey, I was thinking, could you maybe help me with my science homework? I didn't get a chance to finish it last night since some dumb stray cat distracted me."

He laughed, fixing her with his intense green gaze, and brilliant smile, "I'd love to, princess."

Alya all but screamed.

[BTW this is the song I was thinking of when I wrote this]

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Jayne you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Marcus McKinnon!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

There’s a lot of people who are super excited to have your Marcus back in the mix! And reading over your application just made us really nostalgic and happy that he was coming back. It’s clear how much time and effort you’ve taken into developing his character, which really makes him jump out to us as someone we’d hate to do without in the roleplay -- and we’re so excited for you to explore some of the plot points that you’ve developed and take him further along in his journey! You’ve been missed!

application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

My name is Melissa Jayne but I prefer to go by Jayne, I am 23 (blah - feel old), she/her pronouns please and I live in the GMT+1 timezone, United Kingdom.

ACTIVITY

I plan to be pretty active, keep up with activity requirements and interact with everybody. 7/10, because a girl needs to earn money and get her beauty sleep ;)

TRIGGERS

*removed for privacy

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

I was here before :)

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

I don’t think I really connected or identified with any one character, I loved them all individually for different reasons and the books and characters were like a family to me. I loved Nymphadora Tonks the most, though I wouldn’t say I was anything like her - her ability to change her appearance seemed cool and she was clumsy just like me.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Marcus; /ˈmɑːkəs/; MAR-kuws Meaning>>  Dedicated to Mars - Ancient Rome        

Elliott;  /ˈɛliət/;  EH-lee-ət Meaning>>  With Strength and Right/ Bravely and Truly/ Boldly and Rightly

McKinnon; /məˈkɪnən/;  MUH-kin-on Meaning>> Fair Born/ Fair Son - Gaelic

FACE CLAIM

Garrett Hedlund!

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER

I have always loved Marcus, from the first moment I read his biography and realised that of course, Marlene would have siblings. I played Marcus as my first ever character here and I adored him, the character development and the interactions and the relationships I was able to create with him. I want a chance to work on him again, redevelop him and bring him into a new environment with a clean slate and a fresh start.

Call to mind a man in a nice, crisp suit, leaning back in an office chair, one foot up on the desk in front of him as he nibbles absentmindedly on the end of a quill. This is the image of Marcus that comes to mind whenever I think about him. He is professional, intelligence and shrewd, however, he has a softer side of him. He doesn’t trust easily but once his trust is earned, he is at your disposal. He is loyal to his friends, putting their needs above his own and he adores his sister Marlene. He takes his job very seriously but he enjoys messing around with his colleagues and building good relationships with them.

In Hogwarts he was always one with the clear head. He made sure his friends kept out of trouble and that his homework was done at least two days before it was due. He enjoyed playing Quidditch and ate chocolate eclairs by the bucket load. He passed all of his OWLS, the majority with Outstanding grades, though he never bragged about them and instead, celebrated the grades of others and encouraged his friends out of their disappointment. He can be a little bit of a smart arse, which often gets him playfully punched or whacked with a pillow. He has also been known to sulk about little things and hold grudges unfairly.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS

Marcus is heterosexual and I have no preferred ships for him, I like ships to form through chemistry and good writing. He uses he/him pronouns and identifies as a male.

CREATE ONE (OR MORE!) OF THE FOLLOWING FOR YOUR CHARACTER:

A MOODBOARD [x]

AN AESTHETIC [x]

A PLAYLIST [x]

A FEW HEADCANONS

When Marcus was five, he fell into a lake on a family trip and almost drowned. His father dove in to save him. Ever since that day, he had been terrified of the water. he can swim, but if he can avoid it, he will do so with every fibre of his being.

Marcus has always been incredibly protective over his sister, and oddly, her friends. He saw them all as sisters that needed to be watched over.

Frank has been his best friends since they sat together on the train on their first day at Hogwarts. Despite their different houses, they remained close and by each others side. Marcus kept Frank out of trouble and Frank encouraged Marcus to cut loose every once in a while.

Marcus joined the Ministry because his father advised him to do so. He has never truly known what he wanted to do for a career.

A FEW POTENTIAL PLOT POINTS

Marcus’s old injury continues to cause his grief, effecting his combat skills and even his ability to tackle stairs. It isn’t until he collapses in front of Amos that he admits that something is not right.

Marcus tries to prove his worth and ends up making a deal with the wrong man, or the wrong Deatheater and he ends up in turmoil, struggling to get a grip on his life and career.

Marcus quits his job at the Ministry and lives off of his parents money for several months whilst he tries to scrape his life back together. A Ministry career had never really been for him anyway.

Marcus dies whilst fighting alongside his family, in the final weeks of the war. He dies knowing that he fought for the right side and as hard as he could.

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it:

Marcus runs a hand through his hair as he ponders the question. His father is currently going bald because he runs his hand through his hair too often, especially, like Marcus, when he is deep in thought. “I honestly don’t know, every potion or spell I have ever needed has already been invented. Perhaps a charm to convert my thoughts into words without lifting a quill? Late night reports are a bitch for hand cramps”.

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you:

“I would take Frank with me, without a doubt, partly because he is brave but mostly because if I didn’t, he would bitch and whine at me until I threw myself from the astronomy tower, simply to get some peace” he joked, though he sucked his lips as he thought hard on the next part. “A knife, probably, since there is some creepy shit in that place and if I my wand was knocked from my hand, I’d like to be able to defend myself”.

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make?

“Ones that compromise my character?” he half asked, shrugging a little. “I haven’t had to make too many hard decisions, but I suppose if I had to decide on who to save between two people I loved, that would be an impossible decision”.

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you?

He leaned back in his chair, clasped his fingers together on his lap and glances towards the ceiling as his mind repeats the question. “I… don’t know” he said quietly, his eyes slowly moving from the ceiling and back to the interviewer. “I guess I would hate for anyone to call me a coward… does that count?”

WRITING SAMPLE

He wasn’t entirely sure as to how he was keeping his eyes open, but he assumed it might have something to do with the three mugs of coffee that he had guzzled whilst changing into his formal wizarding robes. High Society, Pureblood gatherings were not his cup of tea, or coffee as it were, but as his mother had attempted to guilt trip him and eventually blackmailed him, he had had no choice in whether he attended or not. As soon as he had finished at the Ministry for the day, he had rubbed his tired eyes, groaned in annoyance as he had glanced at his calendar and remembered his obligation and headed home to his apartment to change.

As it always was, the social gathering was full of smartly dress men and elegantly dressed ladies, lavish surroundings that were no doubt decorated, polished and prepared by house elves and a banquet that was fit for kings, which many of those among the pureblood society believed they were. His mother and father had not wanted to attend and he had known exactly why - they hated these gatherings just as much as he and Marlene did. To make the night worse, as if that could be possible, he had barely slept in the past week and wondered several times if he was simply dreaming of being at a party, but every time he accidentally bumped into someone and they scowled at him, he was reminded that he was very much awake.

Nursing a glass of whiskey, he scanned the crowd for any signs of a friend, perhaps Frank or Lucinda, but neither seemed to have been invited or been inclined to attend that night. He wished he had been able to take his sister with him, though they would have likely been given the same glances that the Carrow siblings received any time they walked into a room together. Marlene had only recently been released from the hospital though and she was fragile in his eyes, so he hadn’t wanted to throw her into a room of stuffy Purebloods. When they were younger, they had sat in the corner and giggled as they mocked the other party goers, but it wasn’t the same when he was mocking them by himself and he suspected that speaking out loud to himself would only earn him a reputation of being ‘touched in the head’.

An hour passed by before he finally admitted to himself that he had had more than enough and it was time for him to leave. Finishing the whiskey in his glass, he placed the glass on a nearby table and headed for the door, swerving in and out of people as he did so, keeping his head down and his eyes averted. He could almost feel the eyes that turned his way and he moved through the crowd, but refused to look up until he had left the home of whichever Pureblood had thrown the party - he had completely forgotten and didn’t care in the slightest. Taking a deep breath, feeling the icy air fill his lungs, his head cleared and he breathed a sigh of relief, before taking out his wand to apparate home and share tales of his awful night with his sister.

Next time, he would let his mother post his baby pictures to everyone at the Ministry and be done with it.

[v3-killing-harmony-imagines]

deande mod application

killingharmonyimagine mod application

Mod Name: Mod Himiko (I hope it’s not a problem that I’m not kin with anyone from drv3. If it is feel free to disregard this application!)

Means of Contact: Tumblr: @deande, Discord: Mod Himiko

What I won’t write: Gore, that’s it pretty much!

Sample of writing:

I have a mostly fluff piece here but I can pretty much write most things! NSFW is my favourite to write!

Prompt: Hiya! Can I request all the boys reactions to finding their s/o’s secret collection of poems they write?

Korekiyo Shinguuji

* he came across the secret collection while looking in your book collection for anything that may interest him * and what he found certainly did interest him * he fell in love with your writing * the expression you put into your work was truly breathtaking * he was amazed at the ability one human could have in this area * he never knew you had so much emotion * you came home finding him sitting on the couch reading your poetry * your face turned bright red in embarrassment * he was so enthralled with your writing that he hadn’t noticed you had arrived until you stood in front of him * “s/o, this is… truly delightful” * he then proceeded to drown you in compliments * along with a few questions on how you write them, what you feel when writing, how your brain comes up with these masterpieces * he is truly fascinated as to how one human can put so much emotion into something they love * now, he’s even more intrigued by you than before

Rantarou Amami

* “what’s this, s/o?” * you looked over to see him holding your diary and you immediately panicked * “oh, haha it’s nothing!” * you tried desperately to play it off, hoping he would disregard the worn out book * he looked over at you, confused as to why you were blushing profusely * then, as he began to read, he realised why * “s/o? Is this really yours?” * out of sheer panic in the heat of the moment, you ran out of the room, with him running up to catch up to you * he stopped right in front of you * dammit, why does he have to be so fast * he looked you in the eyes and you were confused for a second * what is he doing? Is he going to say something? * then, with almost comedic timing, he grabbed your temples and planted a kiss onto your forehead * “this is adorable s/o, please continue to write more!” * now he always makes sure to watch you while you’re writing your poems * although it can be a little distracting at times, you love him too much to ask him to leave * perhaps he’s waiting for you to write one about a certain green-haired boy you know?

Ouma Kokichi

* you came home one day tired from work just wanting to pass out on the couch * in a daze you walked over to the sofa and laid down with your eyes open * and then you saw it * one of your most recent poems was…. stuck to the ceiling? * oh no * you sprung up from the couch to see your nightmare unfolding * your poems were stuck up all around the house * all around you * on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture, even on the paintings! * and then, as if this wasn’t bad enough, he popped up from behind the couch * “surprise s/o! Do you like what I’ve done to the place?” * you were furious, and he could sense this, which made him enjoy it even more * “i couldn’t keep my eyes off your work! so, I put them all around us so I always have one to read!” * you sigh * this honestly doesn’t surprise you * so instead of arguing, you do what he hates most * you ignore him and drift into sleep * and you may or may not wake up with another sheet taped to your forehead

Shuuichi Saihara

* he had always been supportive of you no matter what you did * he always encouraged you to do what you love * which is why, when he found your crumpled notes in the trash while cleaning one day, he was overwhelmed with joy * he realised you were probably embarrassed about it, so he kept it a secret that he found out about it * however, that didn’t stop him from reading whichever pieces he could find * one time he found one about himself, causing him to blush * he really admired your work * he started giving hints to you that he knew * he randomly bought a collection of poems one day * and the week after he took you to a slam poetry competition * after the fifth biography about Emily Dickinson you knew something was up * you confronted him, asking him what the deal was * and immediately he mustered the truth * “I…I found some of your poems” * he could see that you were blushing, causing him to blush too * now you were both just standing there, both blushing, both not knowing what to say * “so, um, what did you think?” you asked * “it was… amazing” * your timid boyfriend was still as shy as ever * you pieces together all the little hints he gave you like buying you books and the slam poetry competitions * he did all this for you? * Immediately you hugged him and pulled him in close * “thank you, Shuuichi” * you could feel the heat from his still-blushing face * you were so lucky to have such a cute and supportive boyfriend

Kaito Momota

* he came home early from training one day and decided to surprise you by sneaking in and embracing you * he assumed you were going to be in your room so he peered through the window * there you were, laying asleep on the bed * he snuck in through a window and went to lay beside you when he noticed something * there were pieces of paper beside you * he curiously picked one up and read it * it was a poem about him * OH MY JUPITER * A POEM ABOUT HIM?? A POEM FROM HIS S/O???? HIS ADORABLE FANTASTIC S/O???? * he was so excited that he began to jump up and down from the bed * looks like he forgot you were still sleeping * you awoke to find your boyfriend bouncing up and down holding a sheet of paper * wait… is that? * before you had time to freak out or cry or run away, he grabbed your waist and lifted you up * “s/o you’re so sweet and talented I love you so much!!” * you still found it amazing how this self-proclaimed “suave hunk” could be this excited by a piece of poetry * he finally let you down from his arms and he laid beside you * his eyes were gleaming as he stared at your work * “It’s really not very good a-and I’m still not fini-” * he cut you off with a firm smooch on the lips * “don’t you dare say anything like that!” * he saw how shocked you look * “I’m sorry I might have overreacted” * he didn’t overreact, in fact, this was the best response anyone could have given * you kissed him back to show your gratitude * he smiled at you as he pulled your head onto his shoulder * “I love you s/o” he muttered, as you both slowly drifted off into your well earned sleep

Kiibo

* he was in the garage one day looking for a certain wrench Iruma had given him for maintenance * he heard the door open and saw you walking in with a pile of papers * you had already taught him what it looks like when he’s stressed a few months ago and he said its best to avoid you at these times * he recognised this decided to ignore you as you had not even seen him there * he went back to searching when all of a sudden * BANG * what was that? where did the noise come from? * he immediately went over to check on you * he found you on the ground holding your head * oh no! s/o is hurt! * he went to pick you up when you said you were okay * “are you sure s/o? Let me at least pick up these papers for you!” * before you could say anything he had the sheets in his had and was reading through them * no one had obviously taught him yet not to be nosey with other people’s stuff * “Is this a poem s/o?” * you immediately grabbed the page from him * he looked up in confusion * “I am sorry s/o but I do not understand what the meaning of this poem is but I am sure it is amazing! ^^” * even though he had no idea what your poems meant he assured you they were good * you were blushing now * “s/o your face is turning red! something is definitely wrong! do you need some soup?” * man, this boy was adorable

Gonta Gokuhara

* he had been tending to his bugs when he saw something from the corner of his eye * through the crack in the door he saw you * you hadn’t seen him so he went in to see what you were doing * you had headphones in so you didn’t hear him * he looked over your shoulder and saw you were writing something * he tapped you on your shoulder, causing you to jump * “Gonta is very sorry s/o! Gonta didn’t mean to startle you! that wasn’t very gentleman like!” * you reassured him that it was okay * “Gonta was wondering what you were writing s/o?” * you froze up * “u-um I would rather not tap about it, im sorry” * Gonta was very confused * what was wrong? did Gonta do something to make you mad? did you not want to talk to Gonta? * you reassured him yet again that it was not his fault, you just weren’t comfortable talking about what you were doing * Gonta was still very confused as to why you didn’t want to talk about whatever you were doing * but, if you didn’t want to talk about it then Gonta would not mention it. * that’s what a good gentleman would do! * he hugged you from behind and left to talk to his bugs about how much he loved you, which you overheard * what a gentleman

Ryouma Hoshi

* you thought it was nothing to keep your poems a secret * they were pretty embarrassing * and they weren’t that good either * which is why when he found them in your drawer and confronted you about them, you burst into tears * this is not how he imagined this would go * “s/o there’s to need to cry. these poems are very nice” * he felt a little betrayed that you had kept these from him but he saw how distressed you were over them and decided to keep it to himself * once you finally calmed down he placed the pages on the table to him and sat down beside you * he told you honestly that he didn’t understand them but he was very happy that you found something you love * now, you’re crying with tears of joy * he kisses your cheek and tells you he loves you, which he mean so much * from then on, you promise to always show him your work and he promised to try to help whenever you need it

[leatherjacket-lovesong]

leather jacket love song - part five (ongoing)

You sleep with your phone under your pillow and turned up full volume out of habit. Even though he never calls. Even though it's been months since he last rang you at three am.

(You're still 'there'. You're still 'his'. And you've a horrible gut feeling that no matter how many types of fiery hell he drags your friendship through, you always /will/ be.)

So when your mobile suddenly rockets Ian Brown into your dreams to rouse you from sleep, it's a damn good job you're a man of routine.

Rolling onto your back, screen flashing 'Elvis' pressed to your ear, your mouth wrestles with both a 'yes?' and 'what?' at the same time, as your half-awake brain tries to find the right greeting.

No 'hello'.

No 'mate'.

Even working at barely twenty percent brain capacity, you don't think he deserves it.

Only it's not Elvis who speaks. The voice mumbling down the line is way too soft, way too lilting, a little bit gormless round it's edge like the voice of someone who might forget their own name, and it takes you much longer than it really should to place it.

"Noel..." Your stomach sinks.

As far as your aware, the last time Elvis and Noel spoke to one another was the day Elvis moved back to his mum's. And the last time you saw Noel, the sketchy little bastard had been E'd out of his tree. You don't think it's unreasonable to have a bad feeling about this.

"Come pick your lad up..." Noel's voice is muffled into the mouthpiece as though he's trying to eat it, but his words are distant somehow. Faraway. Like he's speaking on autopilot and his brain isn't engaging.

Somehow, you're not surprised. Somehow, you'd expected this.

You snarl down the line, as you cram knuckles into your eyes. "Fucks sake, Elways. It's two in the morning. Just stick him in a taxi, or somethin'. Can you lot not wipe yer arse without me?"

Quiet on the other end. Just snuffled breathing and distorted trance waves on the wind.

"No can do, mate..."

"And why not?" You scoff, his incompetence sparking you enraged. Even ten storeys high on a mixture of what's likely MDMA cut with dog wormers, he should be able to shove Ellie in a taxi. "Knob stuck in a sheep?"

But when Noel doesn't bitch back and just /sighs/ instead, it suddenly clicks with you that maybe he's not the one being the cunt in this.

"Three reasons..." He finally says, in that rolling run-on voice of his, "Number one: he's on the floor... Number two: I can't wake him up... And number three: he won't stop bleeding..."

---

You remember little things.

Key moments.

Brief seconds in life that your memory locks away before they're burnt to dust by time and age.

They're rose-tinted, definitely. Perfect in every way the reality never could have been. And they're filtered with the sepia glow of nostalgia that awakens an ache in your chest.

They're unfaithful. (Like he is.)

Romanticised. (Like his is.)

But preserved. Protected.

Like Elvis in '95. Kicking his ball about in your front yard, skin sunburnt a colour to match his United footie kit.

And Elvis in 2000. Slouching outside the headmaster's office, blood smeared across a swollen but still snarling, burst upper lip.

Like Elvis in 2005. Sewing the first patch onto his leather jacket, stabbed raw fingertips dying the white cotton bright red.

And Elvis in 2010. Arguing with Noel over the redecoration of their living room, clothes flecked with wet oxblood paint.

Kneeling now, straddling Elvis's unconscious body with both your hands pressed hard into the groove of his boney hip, stemming the flow where a previously light t-shirt has turned magenta, though, you think...

(You hope. You pray.)

"Please, don't let me remember this."

---

You shout at Noel.

You don't meant to. You know, logically, that it's probably not his fault. You know, logically, that Elvis gets himself into fights he can't win all the fucking time. And you know, logically, that he's a dead man in these scraps without you.

But Noel's there. Conveniently. Looking ten shades of shit in the A&E waiting room.

And there's blood on your hands right now. Elvis in big red smears all flaking right down your forearms and every time you catch a unwarranted glimpse of it you have to swallow back the urge to throw up.

"Fuck's sake, Elways. He goes out with you for one night. ONE. FUCKEN. NIGHT. And this is what happens? THIS is what I have to wake up to?! You can't even take him out for a couple of hours without him gettin' knifed?? Without him nearly gettin' killed??"

It's early hours Saturday morning. A&E's swarming with obnoxious staggering drunks. You have to raise your voice over the noise to be heard.

Noel, decked out in a shredded Madonna t-shirt with a polka dot silk scarf knotted round his throat, and sitting a bit glazed eyed on a bench where you're pacing — waiting, worrying — barely makes a sound when he opens his mouth.

"I'm not his babysitter..."

"No, Noel. No, you're not." You agree, nodding, before suddenly leaning down to eye-level with a snarl, "But you're his fucken MATE."

Or supposed to be. You don't know what mad thought possessed Elvis to make him wanna go back to knocking about with Elways, but you assume the two of them put past grievances behind them, kissed and made up.

Exasperated, you go on, "Where the shitting hell /were/ you while all this was kickin' off? Standin' back, watchin', scratchin' yer balls?? Because you sure as fuck didn't help him out!"

Noel, slouched forwards with wrists clattering full of bracelets hanging between his knees, drops his head in a response you hope is meant to signify shame.

"Wasn't my fight..."

"IT DOESN'T FUCKEN HAVE TO BE!"

He yelps, surprised, when you grab his scarf.

Then yelps, in pain, when you use it to yank his head back up.

"YOU TWO-FACED, SPINELESS LITTLE CUNT. It's not my fight either! Elvis hasn't even talked me for the last three weeks. But I still came straight down, didn't I. I'm still fucken' here, aren't I. I still give a shit, don't I. 'Cos I'm his /mate/, and that's what mate's /do/. But you wouldn't have a slightest fucken clue about that sorta thing, would you?"

Noel doesn't answer.

Noel doesn't even appear to be registering.

Instead, his glassy dew-drop eyes drift sideways and it takes you a moment to clock that he's focused on something else.

"Mr Wood. Mr... Elways?" The nurse glances down at her clipboard, then chances a timid look around your bristling shoulder at Noel. "Would you both like to follow me? We've got some news."

---

You're not the first one to speak.

Sitting in the doctor's office, fingers steepled as though in prayer beneath your chin, you're ready for it. Mentally and emotionally prepped.

Armoured. Waiting.

You can hear it. You can take it.

You've already planned out how to break the news to his mum.

You're not soft. You won't break.

A phantom sting round your ear, from a hand that isn't there, makes you wince.

("Stop crying like a big girl, for fuck's sake. You want everyone to think yer a poofter? You want me to put you in a dress?! 'Cos I fucken will, if ya don't stop. I'll parade you round the whole bleedin' estate in it!")

But it's Noel who reacts to the news first.

Noel, perched on the edge of a cheap plastic chair next to you, who suddenly slumps against the backrest with his hands over his face.

Noel who breathes a loud, over-exaggerated sigh of relief.

"Well... at least he's not dead."

Not.

Dead.

It doesn't start to sink in for you, until you're the one filling out his medical forms with a hand that shakes.

Until you're writing your own name and contact details into the little space provided for 'Next of Kin'.

He's alright.

He's not dead.

Lucky. The doctor had said. Extremely fucking lucky, from the sound of it.

Half a centimetre away from a punctured liver.

Five minutes away from a blood transfusion and you heroically giving up however much he needs.

But he's sound (kind of). Okay.

He's alright, of course he is.

Because he's Elvis. Flirting with the devil. Dancing a razors edge. Iggy Pop for the new generation and you fucking lovehate him.

Out in the corridor, Noel isn't fast enough — or sober enough — to dodge when you grab him.

"Don't think this is over, Elways."

"Awh, gerroff my back will you, Wood. Only went out with him 'cos he called me up suggesting it, and I was tryin' to be his /friend/."

---

You don't realise how anxious you are (how anxious he's /made/ you) until you nip outside to get your cigs from the car, and all of a sudden begin throwing up.

Doubled over, one hand flat on the car's hood for support, you retch hopelessly into the grass verge until your throat's all acid and your stomach's all knots.

Then, when your chest muscles hurt and there's nothing left to puke, when you've slumped down onto the concrete because your legs no longer want to work, when you're leaning back against the front tire, dropping your lighter over and over again as you try desperately to spark up, everything you've been hiding from for weeks — for months — hits you full force all at once.

You don't expect to spend your Saturday morning sitting knees up in a hospital carpark, sobbing your heart out into your elbow, but you do.

And you don't expect Noel to come out later and sit down silently on the ground beside you, but he does.

And it's not comforting.

It's not helpful.

But it's human. And it's enough.

And when the sky's threaded purple and the streetlamps click off, when you've soaked and snotted all over the sleeve of your hoodie, Noel pipes up.

"I'm going back to Cardiff."

And when you halt in the middle of wiping your nose to give him a quizzical look, he takes it as his cue.

"You were right," he admits, a bit too easily, a bit like it's a speech that's been well rehearsed, "you and Ianson. You were right. I don't have any mates. I don't have anything to stick around up here for. I'm a cunt. So after I sit my final exam, that's it. I'm off. I'm going back home."

You don't know how to react to this. It's rare you ever get anything poignant from Noel. You've got a niggling little feeling he's waiting for either devastation or applause.

You don't give him either.

Just sit perplexed, brow pulled low, waiting for more.

And he gives you it, because he's Noel — the fucking master of drama and excess, and you knew he would.

"He loves you, you know."

"What?"

"He loves you." He repeats, as though it's the most flippant thing in the world, "God's sake, Wood, everybody knows."

And before you can react, he's already up.

And before you can scramble to your feet, with a bellowing, "KNOW'S WHAT, NOEL?!" the irritating little shithead is already halfway across the carpark, replying only in shrugs.

You've got no fucking idea who or what he's referring to.

But the abrupt tightness in your chest feels a bit like both panic /and/ hope.

---

You watch him, watching the sunrise.

Little shafts of infant orange light sliding through the gaps in the blinds, slicing across a face swollen tender and bruised.

Little specks of dust caught in the up-draft, sparkling in the early rays like swirls of glitter in front of his eyes.

Little consistent mechanical beeps, muffled into melody, reminding you both where you are.

He doesn't talk.

You reason it probably hurts too much to open his mouth.

Or he's embarrassed. Regretful and ashamed of himself.

(You hope so.)

He knows you're there, though.

Leaning in the doorway to his private room. Arms folded. A man ready to take on the world.

He knows you're there, because you can tell from the way his head's positioned at a complete ninety degree angle towards the window and away from the door, doing his best to avoid eye contact and avoid your inevitable onslaught.

You want to be mad at him.

You want to shout.

It's all there, building tension in your stiff, squared shoulders and clenched, set jaw.

You wanna tell him he's an ignorant, selfish, intolerable arsehole. You wanna scream and call him every derogatory insulting name you can think of.

You wanna give him a bruise to match the black eye on the right side. You wanna demand he man the fuck up.

And he's waiting for it.

You know he is.

Because /he/ knows /you/.

But for some reason the words are sticky.

For some reason, propped up in a hospital bed, narrow shoulders and bird-like collarbones, pale and sickly and wretched and worn, Elvis — Mr. Big Mouth and Bigger Ego, Mr. Big Dreams and Big Grand Tragic Fucking Gestures to Break Your Heart Apart — looks /small/.

And it occurs to you that you never really thought of him as something transient, something mortal, something with a finite amount of resources before.

Your best mate is — and always has been — invincible.

(You both are.)

"I thought I'd lost you." It's out before you realise. Soft-spoken. All feeling.

A sentence you immediately wish you could scoop back into your mouth and replace with the spitting confrontation that you really want.

It hangs heavy in the air between you. Sentimental words like an awkward gift neither one of you wanna take home.

Until Elvis closes his eyes.

And bows his neck.

And replies at a length, voice no more than a fractured half sob in the back of his throat, "I thought I'd lost you, too, man... I thought I'd lost you both..."

--

Your coat pockets rattle with Elvis's painkillers, when you take him home on day three.

He's not better, but he's managing (not complaining) and you make a pointed effort to drive extra slow over all of the speed bumps to minimise his stoic wincing.

You think he appreciates it.

You're not so sure he appreciates you driving straight by his house without stopping, though.

And you're not so sure he appreciates you pulling up in your mum's driveway, instead.

And he /definitely/ doesn't appreciate the patronising glare you gift him.

"You're stayin' wi' me for a bit."

He responds with a questioning pull of eyebrows and you elaborate, gruffly. "I want you where I can keep an eye on yer. You're fucked if you think I'm leavin' you on yer own with a shit ton of morphine."

He waits in the car while you climb out, then saunter round to his side.

Through the windscreen, hunkered and half scowling, he reminds you of that sulking kid, eleven winters ago, who smacked a busy in the face and got you both arrested.

You wish your world was that simple, that straight-forward and innocent, again.

"I'm not gonna off meself, if that's what ya think." He grumbles, when you open the door for him.

Leaning down, anchoring an arm around his back for stability, your reply's muffled in a lank mess of unwashed hair as Elvis lifts himself slowly, cringing. "Don't believe a word that comes outta your mouth lately, mate."

In the house, your mum fusses, naturally.

In the house, Elvis huffs and puffs and pretends he hates it.

You busy yourself upstairs, making up the spare bed in Chantelle's old room, smirking.

Your mum's always doted on Elvis like he's her own son.

And Elvis has always secretly loved the way she's a mum who'll actually /hug/ him.

Later, as you help him up to the bedroom, taking one stair every two minutes because he won't let you carry him (you tried. And you're counting.) he shakes his head in frustration, then elbows you in the ribs.

"I don't /want/ ya lookin' after me."

It's biting. Viscious. Like the last warning snarls of a wounded animal caught helpless in a snare. And it hurts you. Not because he's ungrateful or thankless, or because you've gone to all this trouble and he doesn't give a shit (you can deal with that, you've had a lifetime of it.) But because even after everything he's been through this month, after everything with Mattie and the fight and almost ending up dead, Elvis /still/ won't drop the bravado, /still/ won't be kind enough to allow himself to be /weak/.

You pull him tighter against your side. Lift the majority of his weight as he clutches at his stomach and braves the next step.

"Yeah well, I didn't wanna come save your arse from bein' buried six feet under at three in the mornin' 'cos Elways is incapable of thinkin' like a human bein', an' I don't /particularly/ fancy standin' about 'ere for three hours while you climb these bleedin' stairs, but sometimes — me lil fuckwit of a friend, you just 'ave to put up with shit."

---

You fetch it. All of Elvis's shit. Trudge up the street to what little remains of the Ianson family household, tooled with a clumsily scrawled list of everything he 'needs'.

Phone charger.

Laptop.

Crap to wear.

That one big tattered poster of Joan Jett that you're convinced is even older than him.

"I'm not bringin' yer entire wank bank." You'd told him, earlier that morning, when he'd swapped the list for a tray of your mum's breakfast in bed.

"Oh, come on," He'd whined, puppy-eyed even above a mouthful of scrambled eggs and pointing a fork to the Westlife collage completely covering one bedroom wall — a fading ode to Chantelle's obsessively romantic teenage years (years in which you'd had to accompany her to more than one of their shitty concerts, because your mum had /insisted/. Years in which you'd been needlessly excited when you discovered a picture of Alex Turner as her phone wallpaper, only to have your heart broken when she'd admitted she didn't like his band, and only had it there cos she /fancied/ him...), "I can't sit lookin' at those grinnin' paddy twats all day, I'll do meself in."

And so that's you, off to pick up clean clothes and electronics and fucking Joan Jett.

And that's you, anxiously pressing the Ianson's doorbell and hoping Elvis's mum actually lets you in.

As a kid, you'd never really liked her.

As a kid, you'd been convinced that dislike went both ways.

And as a kid, your Chantelle referred to her as 'the witch' on account of the sharp nose and cutting cheekbones Elvis later grew to inherit.

And growing up, Elvis's name for her had been solely 'the bitch'.

Nowadays though, you think you understand her.

Nowadays, you think you kinda get it.

After suffering four miscarriages and an unfortunate cot death, there's only so much of Elvis one mother's nerves can take.

When she opens the front door, however, you're surprised at her immediate inclination of head, gesturing for you to come in. And when you step into the living room, you're surprised to find a sofa scattered with Elvis's belongings. 

"I packed up a few bits I thought he might want. Clean clothes, toothbrush, computer... things..." Elvis's mum is so quiet you can barely hear her and she doesn't look you in the eye when she speaks. "Probably loads of stuff I missed, though. So you're welcome to go upstairs and pick up anything else you think he needs. You'll know better than I do. I don't know anything about him these days..."

Half an hour later, after you've fished Elvis's phone charger from the colony of wild socks underneath his bed and return downstairs with Joan Jett rolled up under an armpit, you find his mum in the kitchen, hunched tense over a cup of tea at the table, head in her hands and biting at a trembling bottom lip.

"He's gonna be alright, ya know." You tell her. Reasoning she needs to hear it. Reasoning some fucker has to be the one who remains positive.

She sniffs and nods. Twitches a thin smile. Doesn't look up at you, though. You reason she's likely just too broken for it.

"I know..." She eventually whispers on an exhale's fragile edge, "I know he's safe with you. You've always been a good influence on him. You looked after him so well when you were kids..."

(...when you were /kids/.)

"That's right." You step towards her. Crouch beside the table so you're at eye level. So she has no choice but to look at you. No choice but to see that you're /sincere/.

You've got this. You're Dominic.

"An' just 'cos he's a grown man now, doesn't mean I 'ave any intention of stoppin'..."

--

You're going to be the death of each other.

You've always known it.

Only it hits you a little bit harder when you find him sitting on the back step, kitchen door to the garden wide open, freezing his arse off in nothing but boxers and his leather jacket ‪at three o'clock‬ in the morning.

The urge for a piss had seen you glancing through his ajar bedroom door on your bleary eyed shuffle down the hallway, and it hadn't been until you'd finished in the bathroom that it twigged there hadn't actually /been/ anyone in his bed.

Now there's a thin strip of bruised knotted spine between leather and elastic that you wish you couldn't see, and you're standing six feet away, shivering in your t-shirt and Calvins.

"What's up?" You ask, when you've stood a bit too long, when you're certain he's waiting for you to say something, "Shit the bed?"

A plume of grey anorexic smoke. "Go back to sleep." And the hem of his jacket riding up to expose tattered ends of messy bandages haphazard with curling surgical tape.

He won't allow you to dress his wound. He'll barely let you touch him, these days. But he's sitting in your back doorway at an ungodly hour, wearing nothing but that stupid fucking jacket he left on the wing mirror of your car, so that must account for /something/.

Unable (and a little bit unwilling) to go back to sleep, you do what any discerning English gentleman would do in this situation.

You stick the kettle on.

Make tea.

Then join him out on the back step, trying to ignore the way it's so cold your nuts have practically crawled back up into your body.

"Red moon." He says, flatly, swinging the last third of his cig your way.

You take it. A straight trade for the cup of tea he wedges between grazed up knees.

Above you, hanging over the field at the end of your garden, where you and Elvis wore down the leather on footballs when you were kids, where you sprained countless ankles and wrists, because Elvis always played dirty — the United scum that he is — and where you laid the early foundations of a friendship later cemented in political fashions and music, a blood moon burns its warning.

The lunar eclipse. The end of days.

And, when you've crushed the cigarette filter into the concrete and your arse has gone numb from the cold on the step, when Elvis has drunk all of his tea and half of yours and you've both been quiet for ages, he hefts a sigh, leans back, angles up his chin and closes his eyes as though sunbathing. "What next?"

It's cryptic, like always, but you hear it — all the unspoken words overloading the single silent space in between.

The 'where do we go from here'.

The 'what does this mean'.

The 'sorry', maybe.

(Or perhaps you're just projecting.)

And you wish you had the answer.

You wish you had some security.

Wish his outburst hadn't caused you to lose your always certain, always steady footing.

Most of all though... most of all you wish you had something else to say other than, "I dunno, mate... You tell me."

--

You remember Glastonbury, '08.

Standing in a muddy field among hundreds of drunk festival goers while ‪The Verve‬ light up your Sunday. You're not dancing, you're not a bloke who does that sorta thing, but you've got your head thrown back and arms outstretched, soaking it all in. And Elvis — still wired from managing to blag a barrier position to see ‪Pete Doherty‬ on the Friday — is singing in your ear with an elbow hooked round your waist, and you're thinking (knowing, really) "I am a fucking 'Lucky Man', indeed."

You remember it being easier then.

(Happier, maybe.)

More manageable, definitely.

Even as you come across Noel later on, when you and Elvis stumble arm-in-arm back to your tent.

Noel who's come along to Glasto with you, but in true Elways style has quickly gone his own way. And who, after three days, is nothing but an indulgent mess of filthy bare feet, white jeans rolled up to the knees, rainbow body paint and strings upon strings of plaited daisy chains. Noel, who, on his way to fuck knows /who/ in fuck knows /where/, makes wanker gestures and shouts "who's on top, tonight, nancy boys??" when the sight of him running passed like some kind of Millennial-Woodstock reject has you and Elvis collapsing into one another, giggling.

You remember it being easier then.

(The word didn't sting.)

When it was just you and Elvis and sometimes, now and again, Noel Elways. Before that night down The Crown, when a five-foot-nothing blonde shoved in beside you at the bar, playing wing-woman for her scary best mate.

Before Noel and Specks. And Mattie and Elvis.

Before you could listen to ‪The Smiths‬ without thinking of a certain tacky knitwear obsessed artist.

And you wonder, if you were given the opportunity to go back in time, would you do it all differently?

And you wonder, if you could replay ‪Sunday night‬ at Glastonbury when you were nineteen — if you could rewind to that precise moment Elvis wrestled you down onto the tarpaulin, still cracking laughs on the back of Noel's comment, and jokingly suggested; "Ohhh, Dominic, KISS me." would you do it?

Probably... probably.

--

You're down town, flicking through the stacks in Sound on a Saturday, trying to find something decent to buy for Elvis as some sort of 'get well soon, ya twat' present, when he turns up.

You don't even need to see him, to know when he shows.

Because Liam Gaffney, Sound's sixteen-year-old weekend 'record assistant' and your own personal shopper, who's been trailing you about the aisles regurgitating every article he's read in this week's copy of NME word-for-word, standing way too close for comfort and constantly getting under your feet, suddenly exclaims, "JUDE!" so loud he almost bursts your ear drum, then rockets off in streaks of smiley faces and tie-dye.

You don't turn round. You don't even look up. Just slouch a bit further and sink your head a bit deeper, and strategically navigate your way towards the very back of the shop.

It doesn't really work. You're not sure why you bother. Sound's no bigger than a shoebox, so there's nowhere for you to hide at six foot two. You've also just gravitated into the Northern Soul corner, and if there's anyone who's gonna be browsing round that bit in a parka on a Saturday, it's you.

(Or Polly, you suppose.)

You hear snags of conversation between the gaps in the same Happy Mondays album Liam's /always/ got playing on repeat in the shop. (Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches. Released five years before he was born and playing over and over again every weekend for the last twelve months. You're surprised his manager hasn't broken it in two.)

"Saved summink special just for you, la..."

"How much you robbing me, this time..?"

"Jussa tenner now for you innit, like. But don't be tellin' 'em all, right. Mates rates an' that. Can't 'ave everyone wannin a bidda de Gaff..." And then, mixed with the ringing of a till and rustling of a carrier bag, "Cheers. Ta. Your Dom's over there, ya know."

And you /feel/ it.

The hesitation.

The weighing up of the odds.

The 'should we/should we not'.

But he's gotta keep up appearances in front of Gaffney.

(In front of the whole fucking world.)

You both do.

And so he's there, a few seconds later, leaning against the rack next to you, with a smile that's more like a grimace and an upward acknowledging nod, "Alright, mate."

"Alright."

"Anything good?"

"Not really. You?"

"Couple of bits. Just picking up some stuff Liam put behind the counter for me during the week." He doesn't offer to tell you what they are. Beyond Morrissey and The Beatles, yours and Julian's musical tastes don't overlap that much. He's long since gauged your disinterest. So instead, as you side step down the aisle to flip through the next stack, he offers up a sudden, "I heard about Elvis." in a tone somewhere between sympathetic and sore.

You pause in your browsing. Feel the muscle tense in your jaw. "Noel."

Of course. You should have known.

"Well, kinda." He shifts uncomfortably on the edge of your view, "He told Sara and Sara told me, so..."

"So, Mattie knows." Because of course Specks won't have thought to keep her big fat mouth shut. Because of course the news that Elvis nearly died just has to get back to the poor fucking girl.

Sometimes, you wonder if you're the only one in your group of mates who actually possesses forethought and common sense.

Sometimes, you wonder if you were beamed in from a completely different planet to them all.

Julian doesn't confirm or deny this information. And you know he's doing that irritating pacifist thing again, where he's dodging questions because he doesn't want anyone to get hurt.

There was a time, many naive months ago, when you mistakenly found this quality a bit endearing. And there was a time, many naive months ago, when it was quite nice to meet somebody who possessed a genuine moral code.

Funny how everything that was once attractive about him, bugs the absolute shit outta you now.

"How is she?" You ask. Because you've got manners. Because you do care. Because it's been way too long since you visited and there's guilt collecting in your gut like a reservoir. "Not good..." he says.

(Not long, you hear.)

"I'll visit." You say.

"You should." He nods. And then, when the small talk's over and you've both put on enough of a show, "I should get off, anyway. I'm meeting Polly round the gallery at two. Don't wanna be too late. /Scary/ that girl."

"Right, yeah, course. Don't piss 'er off, will you."

As he turns to leave, relief allows your teeth to un-clench.

And as he turns to leave you think 'thank fuck'.

Only for him to suddenly turn back again with a mumbling, "Uhm, actually... Dom..." frowning and rifling through his Sound carrier bag and catching you completely off guard.

You don't know what to say when he slides out a copy of Radiohead's album 'The Bends'. And you don't know what to say when he slides it into your hand, track-listing side up, a paint-stained fingernail bullet-pointing 'High and Dry' just a little bit too long.

"Really good on vinyl, that one." He offers, looking you in the eye for the first time since he entered the shop, "Just so you know..."

--

You spend the rest of the weekend conjuring a tension headache from the furrow in your brow, stomping about the house and grunting like a Neanderthal whenever Elvis or your Mum try to strike up conversation. Because you know what Julian's implying. You know exactly what he's trying to say. You've heard High and Dry so much on the radio at work you're pretty sure you've absorbed every inch of it's meaning.

And you know you're a dickhead. You know you're struggling with this. You feel like you're fucking drowning, most days.

You don't need a reminder of your shortcomings.

So when Elvis confronts you, late ‪Sunday evening‬, you're laying across your bed pressing the heels of your hands into your eyeballs, trying to push the aches out of your skull.

"What's up wi' you, mard arse? You on your period?"

"Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."

Creaks on the floorboards. The soft brush of sliding cardboard. Paper, crinkling. And you know.

You - "Put that back."

Him - "Get lost."

The whir of the arms rotation. A dull drop of the needle. Static that reminds you of air before a thunderstorm.

"At least turn it down."

To your surprise, when the music kicks in there's no frenetic drumbeat, no growling bass or snarling guitar Elvis always favours, though.

Just the gentle lullaby notes of Lennon's white grand piano backed with that warm, vintage vinyl hiss you've always loved. And when you move your hands, Elvis is smirking. And when your frown starts to let up, he flops down beside you on the bed, deeming close proximity safe once more.

He lays in silence next to you with his eyes closed. Not touching. But near enough.

Just a presence.

A reminder.

("I am here for you, you know.")

And it takes a while - three songs in fact - but by the closing notes of 'Jealous Guy' you don't feel like you want him to fuck off any more.

"D'ya ever worry you're turnin' into your old man?" You surprise yourself with your honesty. It suddenly feels as though you've been carrying the weight of your entire twenty-one-year existence on your back at all times and now you're unpacking it, one hoarded forgotten object at a time.

Elvis huffs a laugh, "What? No? Worried about turnin' into me Mam, more.” It takes a few moments for him to clock on, but when you stare at the ceiling in silence he figures it out, "You're nothing like your Dad, man."

"I don't know..." the hands are at your eyes again, the bridge of your nose feels sore, "...I wouldn't be so sure."

You try to explain the rage dwelling deep inside of you. The ruthless aggression stamped like a branding into your bones. The way that every day feels like being stranded in the middle of a war zone, fighting uselessly between what you want and what you /are/.

You were made in your father's image. And while you want to believe that you're not a bad person, you know -- inherently -- that you are.

"Why don't you go and see him?" Elvis suggests, when the words have run out and you're not sure how to put your tormented thoughts into comprehensible sentences any more.

"Are you havin' a laugh?" The thought tightens like a pair of hands around your throat.

"Seriously, mate," he continues, "If nothing else it'll remind you just how different you’ve become..."

--

You're eight.

You're eight, when you ram Sareem Akhtar's face into the school gates and leave him needing four stitches in his eyebrow.

You don't remember why you do it. You're not sure you really have a good excuse. Elvis recalls something about him pulling Chantelle's ponytail to get her attention and kicking it all off, but in all honesty you'd been searching for a reason to batter him for weeks. Maybe even months.

You'd just been waiting for him to put a toe out of line and get on your nerves. Because you don't like his face.

Don't like the colour of his skin.

And he regrets it, whatever he did.

Because when he's curled on the concrete in a puddle of his own blood, and you're standing over him spitting "dirty paki cunt!" with half the school crowded round behind you, he wails his little heart out, the poor sod.

And when Chantelle — the fucking loudmouth, blabs about it all when you get home, your Mum shouts til her face turns tomato then sends you straight to your bedroom.

But your Dad, sitting in his chair by the telly, hunched over shining his Docs, just listens silently and smirks.

That night, Chantelle, Mercedes and Chelsea all climb into your bed.

That night, Natalie and Rachel — the two eldest — stand at the top of the stairs earwigging as your Mum and Dad fight. "It's about you, bro." Natalie calls down the hall.

And Chelsea — the only sister in your bed not currently curled up in your arms and sobbing into your neck, huffs a scathing, "Fuck's sake, it's /always/ about you!" then throws the duvet over her head as she turns her back.

Your Mum spends the next morning crying in the kitchen.

Your Dad thumps about the bedroom, stuffing clothes into bags.

And when you pause in the doorway, frowning.

(Worrying)

He gestures you in, then tugs you into a gruff hug.

"Proud o' you." His chest rumbles against your face as he holds you tight, rubbing the top of your shaved head, "So fucken proud, son."

You don't hug him back. You don't know how, or even if you should. The most affection you've ever had from your Dad is a clout round the ear. And he's always beat it into you not to be soft.

He's never — not once — told you he's proud of you before.

So when he pulls away and holds out his hand, old National Front tattoo faded to a red and blue smudge on his palm, you stand there a bit clueless until he grabs yours.

"Take care o' yer Mam an' sisters." He says. And it's not a request, but a command. "An' take care o' these bad boys." He goes on, plucking up your other hand, balling your fingers into fists and kissing each set of knuckles in turn, "Your best mates for life, these two. "

And then, as the realisation dawns on you.

As you become suddenly startlingly conscious of the massive fucking shoes you're required to fill.

"Don't you dare cry, lad. Don't wanna see none of those tears, now. Not today an' not ever. Understand? You're a fighter. You're not a puff an' yer not soft. You're a proud Englishman, born and bred. Hard as nails. An' yer /my/ son."

--

You knew he'd bounce back.

Week three and Elvis is out in your back garden, playing footie with all your nieces and nephews. Getting tackled into the grass by seven boisterous five-to-ten year olds. Getting tickled half to death and mass sat upon. Much to the delight of the toddlers, Poppy and Rose, who are parked in a double pushchair by the back door and gleefully smearing chocolate biscuits all over each other from the excitement of it all.

You're gazing out the window above the sink, over a mountain of soapy bubbles, while Chantelle stands next to you, armed with a dishtowel, the pair of you reenacting the ‪Sunday afternoon‬ duties from when you were young.

"He'd make a great Dad, you know." She says, as Elvis suddenly leaps up roaring, sending the kids scattering in fits of screeched giggles across the yard.

"He's engaged." You remind her. Reacting on autopilot.

A deterrent.

(Or he was. At one point.)

"I wasn't implying anythin', ya div. I don't /fancy/ him. I'm not after his /babies/, Dom. Just pointin' out he's good wi' kids, that's all."

"Well, obviously..." You direct your attention back to the washing up, "'cos he never bleedin' grew up."

It's quiet for a bit. Just the sound of you scraping the remainders of a steak pie off the bottom of a baking pan, Elvis mimicking a T-Rex outside and the muffled audio of the telly from the next room.

Until, "You'd make a great Dad, too."

And you're not sure if she's saying it because she believes you — like Elvis — have a special way with children, or because you — unlike your own Dad — stuck around to actually look after your sisters and your Mum. But either way it's honest. And either way it's a thought that both surprises and scares you.

"We're two players down for Elvis's football team." She goes on, grinning to herself. "When're me and you gonna contribute?"

"Never." You grunt, "I'm not 'avin kids. At least not after how /we/ grew up..." And then, because the opportunity's right there. Because the conversation's wide open. Because you know you'll regret it if you don't seize the moment. "I'm gonna go see him, ya know."

And Chantelle looks up at you, pencil thin dark brows pulled low beneath a poker straight curtain of yellow-blonde. "Who?"

"Dad. On Wednesday. Called the Visitor Centre last week an' they rang me back with his confirmation this mornin', so..."

"Oh..."

She's silent then, for ages.

So are you.

She stares at the plates slotted into the draining rack and you stare down at the bubbles enclosed round your hands.

Outside, Elvis performs keepie-ups for his adoring crowd.

When your sister speaks again her voice is quiet, /thin/, "You sure that's a good idea?"

And you huff a sardonic laugh, "Hah. No. But I have to... It's somethin' I /need/ to do."

You know she doesn't understand your mysterious, undisclosed motive and in all honesty, you don't expect her to. As far as Chantelle's concerned — as far as all of your sisters are concerned for that matter — your old man is just a cunt who abandoned his family right when they needed him the most.

And you know Chelsea, who was always closest to your Dad and who's never quite gotten over it all, still pins a large fraction of the blame on you.

Chantelle, though...

Chantelle's always fought in your corner. Even if she does have a massive gob on her that's got you into shit more than once.

"Anythin' you want me to tell him?" You ask, when you realise she's not gonna pursue the conversation any further on her own, "Got anythin' you want me to say from you?"

And at first she shakes her head. At first she scrunches her little pig-like upturned nose in disgust.

Until suddenly her face changes, and her jaw squares and her brow crumples into a scowl just like yours, and she looks you straight in the eyes and goes, "Yeah... Yeah, actually, I do... Tell him I hope he never gets parole. Tell him I said he deserves to sit in that cell 'til he /rots/."

---

You won't let him wonder 'what if?'. It's not something you're going to allow.

Because you know that feeling. You live with that uncertain wondering — the sometimes wishful thinking — every day of your life. And you know it's no good.

No good for you.

No good for Elvis.

So when he starts uhm-ing and ahh-ing and bitching and moaning and making excuses that are a bit light on their facts, you pick him up. Physically, pick him up. Then carry him, bridal-style, out to your car.

There's nothing even remotely fucking romantic in it, not when you're struggling to restrain him cos he's kicking off and mouthing off while simultaneously trying to knee you in the jaw. And not when you're dumping him carelessly on the backseat with zero concern for his comfort, then kicking closed the auto-locking door.

"I'm not fuckin' goin'!" His boots ramrod your backrest as you twist the key in the ignition then reverse out of the yard.

"Get a beef on all you want, mate," you say, flashing a nonchalant look in the rear mirror, briefly eyeing your bristling barb-wired boy hunkered in the reflection, all tongue and teeth and too much gum, "it's not gonna change anything. You're goin' to see her and that's that."

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, Elvis sits sullen and sulking and refusing to get out of the car.

Parked in front of Mattie's parents' house, you grab him by the scruff of his jacket and haul him out.

"She doesn't wanna see me!" He protests as you frog-march him down the garden path.

"How the fuck d'you know?"

"I don't wanna see her!" He insists when you're the one knocking on the door. "You can't kid a kidder, man."

And then, when you're pushing him into the Linnington family's living room like a reluctant toddler, pressing your mouth to his ear and a ring into his palm, "I'll come back in a few hours when you've sorted it out."

"Wait, what?! Wood! No!" And when he spins to face you he's less agitated, more helpless. Just big childlike worried eyes and incapable pleading hands. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go!"

Because you're better at fixing shit that's damaged than he is.

Because you're the one who's always puzzled back together all the shattered pieces of his life before.

Because he's fucking terrified of his own inevitably built up, inevitably broken, perpetually battered, rapscallion heart.

"I can't, mate. Sorry." You've got an appointment at Strangeways in an hour. Today, both you and you best mate are facing up to shit in your lives that hurt. "It's all you now, son. Just you..."

---

You remember Elvis' first month at university.

Not because he tells you about it — but rather, because he doesn't.

There are no text messages. No phone calls. No voice mails left in the stupid hours of the morning when he can't sleep because he's bitten his own wild mind bleeding and raw.

And you don't call him. You want to. You pull his name up in your mobile's address book and sit with your thumb hovering over the 'call' button more times than you care to recount, but you don't do it.

Because not too long ago, you laid side-by-side, the world growing slowly beneath your bones, as you stared up at the stars. And you'd told Elvis you'd visit. Told him you'd come down all the time to hang out. But since helping him move into the flat — since you hauled four bags of crap and guitar up the stairs while he arsed about getting to know his new friend 'Noel', he hasn't invited you to come over once.

And you're not the type to drop in on somebody /uninvited/.

And you reason he's likely found a whole crew of mates cooler than you, by now. He always was the popular one.

So when Elvis does finally call you, howling laughter down the line like a wolf, before informing you that he and Noel are planning to throw their very first 'party' and asks you to come along, you realise you're probably just trying to spite him when you tell him that you can't.

You're covering a late shift that particular Friday for a guy at work, you say. Then an early shift the following Saturday morning.

"Sorry, mate. No can do."

And Elvis lets out a sigh so full of disappointment, you can practically hear him deflate on the other end, like a balloon.

"Aw, Wood... Seriously? Really wanted you to be there... It's not the same without you, you know..."

And it's not so much that you're jealous of all Elvis' new mates getting to spend time with him — you swear you're not.

More that you're just envious of Elvis himself, with this exciting new life unfurling at his feet, full of incredible opportunities that you can never have.

And yet... despite your excuses, despite the fact you know you're not going to enjoy it, despite the way you know you're gonna hate everyone, you still find yourself picking out and ironing a decent shirt the night before...

At Elvis and Noel's, it's all bodies.

Bodies clustered round the entrance doors to the building, smoking. Bodies dotting the stairwell, half throwing up. Reams of philanthropically drunk teenagers spilling out of the flat and down the hall.

You have to step over a couple wrapped around each other on the floor, doing thorough investigations of one anothers back molars, before you can get in through the door.

"Thought you had to work?"

A nip on your right arse cheek, hard enough to hurt, incites both a yelp and a warning bare of teeth as you spin around.

It's Elvis. Obviously.

Elvis, all crinkled laughing eyes and lolling teasing tongue and ballsy rogue-like hands that tear the world in two.

"Brought you a present." You say, conveniently side-stepping away from your excuse.

His attention is immediately diverted as you lift up the carrier bag from the off license.

His  smile slides into the corner of his mouth. "How thoughtful of you, Wood."

And you know that he knows it was all a lie. And you know that he knows exactly why.

Because he knows you, just as intimately as you know him.

But he's not going to challenge it.

You know that, too.

Elvis doesn't take the bag holding the six pack. Just rustles about, peels a can from the ring-holder and cracks open the tab. Around you, the bustling crowd in the flat churns like whirlpool.

"Made a lotta new friends." You remark.

It's not a surprise. Everyone has always known and loved Elvis. He makes it too difficult /not/ to.

"Lotta new birds, you mean." He grins, leaning conspiratorially forward.

Elvis is all warm body and cold can, and you're not sure if the goosebumps erupting on your arms are from the chill of the Carlsberg suddenly pressed against your chest, or the close proximity of his mouth.

"Come on. Lemme introduce you."

And while you'd like to believe that when he hauls you round the flat by the arm, parading you proudly from one cluster of party-goers to the next, beaming "Remember when I was tellin' ya 'bout me best mate, Dom?" and "Have ya had the honour of meeting me best boy, here, Wood?" at anyone who'll lend an ear for a second — you know, deep down, he's doing it because he knows you're unbelievably jealous of all of this. And you know, deep down, he wants to make you feel included. Like you're important. Show you off. Make you a part of all this too.

Because while he's laughably blind to things sometimes, (most times), Elvis isn't stupid.

And while he sometimes (a lot of the time) suffers from tunnel-vision, Elvis isn't selfish.

And by parading you about like a trophy, excitedly introducing you to all of his new friends, sharing funny anecdotes from when the two of you were young and making you sound much cooler and put together than you really are — he's resetting the balance. Cleverly easing away your anxiety and re-establishing your existence as the centre of his universe.

And later, in the quiet moments when the night's not quite over but all the frayed seams of the party are starting to gently come undone, he lays next to you, horizontally, on the sofa, legs hooked over the armrest, head on your thigh.

Across the room, Noel's wedged into an armchair with a girl on his lap. She's giggling. He's grinning. And then he's saying something you can't hear into the exposed skin of her collarbone, as he slides both hands beneath her skirt.

"How does he do that?"

You assume Elvis is not commenting on Noel's fingering technique.

(You hope he isn't.)

And that Elvis really means how does Noel /pull/.

You shrug. "Low standards." You suppose, you don't exactly know him much, "Surprising how much you can put it about when you don't care where it ends up."

Elvis' hair brushes your knuckles as you pick up the can wedged between your knees, then bring it your mouth.

"That why Dom Junior's not allowed out to play? Standards too high for the common woman?" He snatches your drink before you're done. And you don't think you're imagining it when you drop your hand and he leans his head into you, tangling hair around your fingers as though seeking out your touch.

"/Impossibly/ high standards." You say, looking down.

At him.

Your firecracker. Your minefield. Your thunderstorm.

Effortless and ignorant here, with a slowly sideways slipping smile and head in your lap.

Your best mate stacking another /feeling/ onto that emotional pile of dry kindling still waiting for a spark.

The teasing — mildly flirtatious — half-panting tongue is back.

"I know, I know," he banters, "it's not every day you run into a bird as perfect as I am."